The long dimly-lit hallway grew narrower in my mind as I walked toward a dark door that I had never been through before. Melancholy filled every square inch of that hallway; it was in the dark wood floors and in the insipid tan-colored walls. In fact, there was so much dejection in that one hallway that it seeped through the one vent in the wall to other rooms in the frigid mansion. Even throughout my sixteen years of living there, I had never once been behind that door. It was always closed. I had never even seen my father go into the room behind it.
I stopped to look at the letter in my hand: the letter my father left behind. I was short, but extremely hard to understand, therefore making me indefatigable. He never plainly stated why he left or where he was going, but I guess that was normal for him. Throughout my life, my father came and went without warning or saying goodbye, leaving me on my own, filled with incessant consternation of what was around the corner. But this time was different. Now the one thing I feared most was the door in front of me.
I reached out to touch the black wood, finally noticing the lavish designs covering the surface of it. All around the flat door frame were words, and I realized that those words formed the lyrics I knew too well.
'The trees whisper as nostalgia haunts me. I'm falling asleep praying that one day, I'll be free.' It was a song my mother used to sing every night before she went to bed, before she mysteriously died.
Back in September of 2003, my father was gone, and my mother and I were in the house alone. I was sleeping when I heard my mother's copious screaming coming from down the hall, so I rushed out of bed and ran to her bedroom, only to find that both locks on the door were bolted shut. I shouted and pounded on the cold door, but I suspect she didn't hear it because of her screaming. I stumbled to the nearest phone and dialed 9-1-1, but by the time the call went through and I heard, "9-1-1, please state your emergency," her screaming had slowly faded and stopped.
I immediately stuttered into the receiver, "I...I think...my mother...s-screaming...l-l-locked door...qu-quiet n-n-now..."
Once the ambulance and police got to my house, it was silent. Some people say that silence is a scary sound, and I had learned that it was true. The silence swept over me like a cold breeze in winter and I had started to tremble.
Just remembering what the police told me after they kicked down my mother's bedroom door brought me the chills. All they could incontestably say when I asked what they found was, "There was nothing to find; there was no body."
The police never investigated. My mother's case was a trifle to them and I was insatiable with their indifference. The only information I could procure was the letter my father left me. But I hadn't connected the letter to my mother's death until I saw the lullaby printed around the door my father had instructed me to enter. I was completely disconcerted by the door when I read the sad lyrics my mother used to sing to sleep.
All at once, I questioned myself if it was prudent to be amenable to what my father had told me to do. He had never left anything for me, and at that time I realized I could be making the wrong decision by following his instructions. But I had to take the risk. Doing what he said to do could be the only way to find out how my mother died, if he even knew... So I reached forward, grasped the doorknob, and opened the door.
At first, what I was seeing was obscure, but my eyes slowly focused to the darkness that surrounded me. I could honestly say that the dark room I stood in was much better than that tedious yet cryptic hallway that had led to it. Bright lights switched on, and I quickly recanted that thought. The room was crowded with tables, chairs, and boxes filled with old newspapers and magazines and pictures of my family all together like we used to be, before havoc ruined it.
I looked up and saw my languished mother, alive. My heart leapt with joy when I realized it was really her. My mother must have been through so much; she must have been so besieged, and yet she stood there a few feet in front of me with tact.
But then I noticed another person in the room, my father. I was suddenly deluged by the semi-scheduled family rendezvous. He was holding my mother's wrist in one tight fist and a gun in the other. I gasped as I realized my mistake. I should've never come. My mother would die because of me.
My insolent father spoke, "The discord in this family has existed far too long. I waited for this moment because we started a family together. And now I must end the family together," he continued with a cliché, speaking to my mother, "Any last words?"
My mother looked at me and said, "I'm sorry for everything. I love you, baby." She didn't move or try to protect herself. She just stood there waiting to die. I couldn't do that.
I screamed, "Mom! Do something! Please..." But she didn't. My father raised the gun and pointed it at her head. I heard the gunshot and saw my mother fall to the floor.
At once I thought, 'It was what she wanted. Now she's free.'
My father looked at his gun with idolatry, but he wasn't fully appeased yet. He looked at me and, seeing the look of pure despondency on my face, smiled a wicked grin.
I finally realized at that moment that I, too, wanted to be freed my entire life. I smiled back at him, knowing then that my wish would come true in 5...he lifted his gun...4...he pointed it at my heart...3...I took a deep breath...2...he pulled the trigger...1.
