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Chapter 1:
This nightmare again. Every time I was finally able to fall asleep it wormed its way to my mind and woke me up again. Shrugging out of my sweat drenched sheets I pushed my feet into my slippers and shuffled to the window. It was raining again. Maybe that’s why the dream came back. The rain beat against the window echoing eerily in the silent house. The memories came one by one as did the piercing pain in my heart when they did. I tried to fight them, to push them back into the dark recesses of my mind but they wouldn’t surrender and finally they flooded in taking me to my knees.
I had been at a friend’s house for a sleep over. Everything had been fine until it had started to rain. When I was younger I used to be afraid of rain, of the sound of it beating against the windows sure that suddenly the windows would burst and we would all be swept away. I had started to cry and my friend had gone and told her mom who in turn called mine. My friend’s mom told me that she was on her way and I allowed her to help me pack up my belongings. Ten minutes later I watched from a window as my mom’s headlights bounced off the garage door and pull to a stop in the drive way. Quickly I threw open the door and rushed to my mom’s awaiting arms. I remember she had smelled clean. Like the children’s hospital she worked in. She was still dressed in her familiar scrubs and at the time it didn’t occur to me that I had pulled her away from her work. She gave me a quick squeeze and ushered me into the back seat deftly flicking the seat belt in place. “Hold my Heart” by Tenth Avenue North had been playing quietly over the radio as we pulled out of the silent neighborhood. We only lived a couple minutes away, it was supposed to be a short ride. We pulled to a stop at a stop light and my mom had leaned back to ask me about my sleep over. She didn’t notice the man quickly cross the cross walk, she didn’t notice him zig zag to her door, but I did. I noticed. I noticed as he had yanked open the door and put the small gun to my mom’s head. I noticed as he pulled her from the car and threw her on the wet ground. He robbed her. He took everything she owned including her wedding ring. He didn’t notice the small girl in the back seat as he stole my mom’s purse. As he started to turn away my mom said something. I only heard the word “God”, the next thing I knew the man became angry; he turned and shot my mom. Again and again the gun went off. She jerked and her blood mingled with the rain washing it away, leaving no trace. She turned her head and looked at me. I saw her lips move but I couldn’t hear her, I couldn’t hear the last thing she said before her eyes lost its light and her head flopped to the side. The man was hit by a car as he was trying to make his getaway, he survived. He had survived and my mom hadn’t. That bastard. Why couldn’t God have spared my mom? She loved Him, she died for Him. Her words about Him had gotten her killed, what good was a God who couldn’t spare a good woman.
I wrapped my arms around my head, trying to push the memories away. Finally they abated leaving me high and dry. Resolutely I pulled myself off the ground and walked to the bathroom. The months after my mom’s death I was awash in pain I couldn’t think straight. I had heard from some people at school that this was a way to let the pain out; a way where nobody would have to know. I was scared the first time and I almost chickened out but afterwards I felt better I felt that maybe, just maybe, I would survive. But the pain always came back and I would have to do it all over again. My arm now had small scars crisscrossing it, it was almost like art work; a rendition of my pain and suffering, a memorial to my mother and a spit in the face to the God who had forsaken her.
There will be more, I promise
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