I knew I was being stupid, very stupid actually. Hiding behind a curtain wouldn’t stop anything. But my soft velvet curtains, the pink and purple floral patterns, the warmth in here- it gave me a sense of protection, but from what? I know George was probably feeling ashamed. The expression on his face- I couldn’t bear looking at, I was letting him down. My sister kept pulling at me, pulling at my curtains- Oh, Jenna was going to make them crease! But not even my exasperation could make me let go of the curtains, I wouldn’t do it. My neighbor, the four year old Irene, was standing on my flawlessly clean, white tiles, and she was wearing her tiny red shoes- her dirty, muddy red shoes. She was making stains on my beautiful tiles! But the expression on her face bothered me even more: What’s wrong with this old woman? And she said: ''I can still see you- you aren’t very good at hiding.''
But I wasn’t hiding now, was I? I wanted to cry and I did. I was scared, but I wanted her, didn’t I? My own little Irene, but she would be prettier, smarter- she’d be my little angel. I fell to the floor, the bookshelf behind me. Even my bookshelf seemed to support me more than my family! Jenna came for me and I crawled to the table. I wanted to sit here, under the wooden table, and never have to leave my perfect little home, my perfect dining room. But then what would I do? Hide here forever? And never see the face of my little baby? It’s odd, how I’d never met her, but loved her so much. Enough to- did I love her enough to risk my life for her? So many stories of deaths at child birth, and no matter what, I know this’ll be excruciatingly painful.
I caught a glimpse of myself on the glass of my bookshelf. I was a mess, my hair tousled, my eyes swollen and red, and my plus-size white tunic all wrinkled. That reminded me of a similar little tunic I bought for my baby, my own little Irene. I’ll name her Angel, she’ll be my little Angel. And we’ll play all day with her little toys, and when she’s a slightly older we’ll talk all day- anything she wants to say, anything she wants to hear. She’ll be my reason to live, to go on- Oh, I’ve looked forward to having her for so long! She’d be my reason to smile even after my mommy forgets me- or acts like she has, even after George is too busy working – whether anyone else cares or not, I’ll be fine with her. She’ll be all I ever wanted, but I’ll be sure to let her be herself, be anything but me and whatever happens- I will always be proud.
My soft brown hair felt George’s lips, and he sat down in front of me: ''Baby, you okay? ''
Oh, how I loved to stare into his bright green eyes, how I loved to brush my fingers through his short, black curls. And his lips….they moved again: ''Baby, come on. You can’t sit here forever.''
The expression on his face, something between anger and disparity, but he still had that soft smile. The soft smile that could melt my heart any day, and did so everyday. I put my head to his chest, I didn’t like staring at my reflection, not now. I was supposed to be the strong one, set an example for Jenna. And, I decide I will be. Somehow, the peace in his arms evaporated my fears. Jenna stared at me: I’m sorry. I’ll go to the doctor. I’m not scared anymore.
#*#*#*
It’s been 15 years- 15 years since that embarrassing memory and I had decided much earlier, I’d never let Angie know. Oh, how time flies by! Time in which Angie has grown up, from the girl who always wore baby-pink dresses and had her hair done in two ponies to- this purple haired, pierced lipped, darkly made-up, short clothed, official delinquent. But I’m still proud, aren’t I? She is still my little Angel, somehow- just too young to understand where she’s going wrong. I still love her, beyond all- live for her, like never before- but, does she know that? She does understand that I do it all because I love her, doesn’t she?
I remember being a child, being her age but who was I? – Oh, but that’s what I never wanted, I never wanted another me. I wanted her to be the one to stand up for herself ,and others- stand up for what she wanted, for what she believed in. Something I’ve always regretted not doing. I know I’ve never taught her wrong, then why was I suspicious? I remember how I’d to burn in anger if my parents showed mistrust in me. But what am I supposed to think if she stays out till 1 a.m.?
And she’d always answer: ‘Mom, of course I wasn’t doing drugs or drinking, or doing any of that shit! Just out with my friends.’ Then, I’d feel guilty for hours- I never could sleep before sunrise. I’d always say I’ll talk to her about it- nicely, and she’d always rush off to school when I tried to pick up a conversation. Mother-daughter time, is something I’ve believed never existed, but I hope I could’ve believed that a mother always understands her child right. I guess, it’s just that- I’ve been a bad mom.
And now, what now? I’d always wanted her to not give in, have faith in her opinions- but murder, is that justifiable? He was a drug-lord, I understand; he was spoiling her friends life, I get that too, but murder- why, Angie? Why couldn’t you just tell me what was wrong? We’d inform the authorities, we’d take other help- deal with it in a way that you were still safe. Didn’t you understand how bad the repercussions of your crime would be? But now, it’s too late- you’re gone, long gone, all the way in heaven I hope. But I’ll make sure they don’t get away- no drug lord kills my child. Revenge will be paid my revenge.
Maria stood up straight, vehemence prominent in her glinting red eyes. She turned to the entrance, leaving the graveyard behind.
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