The Point of No Return~Chapter 1

If there's one thing I've learned about loving people, it's that you shouldn't love someone too much, because if you do, one day when they're gone, you'll be in such a huge puddle of grief that you won't even be able to see right in front of you. The tears will drown your eyes and make your vision blurry. Your words will grow choked, and your insides will hurt. Your heart will hurt. Everything will hurt. That's just how it works.

I think I made this mistake. I loved my mother too much, if that makes sense at all. Some might say that you can't love your mother too much, but I think that you can. I wanted to know everywhere she was going, and if I could go with her. I wanted to make sure I knew where she was at all times and I needed to know her plans for the day.

Don't think she didn't grow tired of it. Because, believe it or not, she did. Of course, every mother loves her child. But I think I didn't give her enough space. I was all up in her face all the time, trying to talk to her and tell her everything that was going on. I wanted her to know.

And you're probably wondering why I did this. Not every child was as attached to their mother as I was. My brother told me it was downright strange. My mother couldn't go anywhere without me right beside her.

And I guess the answer is pretty obvious. I did it because I loved her and I didn't want to see her go--because as I grew up and got older, and I realized that when I graduated high school, went to college, and got a family, I wouldn't want to be around her anymore. I'd be embarrassed of her, like most of my friends are of their parents. I would be ashamed to call her my mom, and I didn't want that to happen. I wanted to build a strong relationship with her now so that when I was older, we would still be close.

And we were. Everything was perfect until a cold, winter day about four years ago. It was a Saturday. I was ten years old then, and my mom and I were in the car, driving to the movie theater to go see a movie. She was at the wheel (obviously) and I was in the passenger seat next to her. We were listening to the radio.

Every few seconds, I'd ask her to look at me. I'd be making a funny face or have my hair wrapped around my head or something stupid like that. We were almost to the movie theater, and I wanted to do it one more time.

"Mom, look!" I said, making the most ridiculous face I could.

I stuck my nose out, pulled on my ears, and crossed my eyes. I bet I looked like a monkey. Oh, what a fool I was.

She glanced over and laughed. "Silly girl," she muttered.

That's when there was a honk from a car horn. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, but I know that all of this happened in the time span of about one second. My mom screamed, and then there was a huge bang and I felt the airbag blow up in front of me.

I must have blacked out, because the next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital bed. I was cold, and I had needles and tubes and all sorts of humble-jumble sticking out of my hands and arms. I was hooked up to countless machines and gizmos.

I noticed several cuts on my arms. Some were long and jagged, but some were small and barely noticeable. Whatever they were, they hurt. But then I remembered. The car accident. The airbag must have cut me.

There was a doctor and a nurse standing next to me. The nurse was tip-tapping something into her laptop, and the doctor was watching me. He put his rather large and bony hand on my forehead as if I had a fever.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, in a thick, gravelly voice.

"Fine. But cold," I answered, and I could tell my voice was hoarse. All I remembered was my mom screaming. It haunted me.

He nodded and got some extra blankets from a closet. He put them on me and sit in a chair next to the bed.

"Where is my mother?" I asked, sternly.

He bit his lip, showing hesitation. Then he spoke.

"Well, that's bad news. Your mother didn't survive the crash."

It hit me like a bullet. My mother was dead. My mother was dead. And it was all my fault. Because I had to make that stupid monkey face.

"You're lying. She's not dead."

"I'm afraid she is. Apparently she wasn't paying attention to the wheel, and a car pulled out right in front of her. It hit her head on. She was killed instantly by the impact."

I started to cry. And I cried the next five days that I was in the hospital.

I had lots of cuts and scratches on my arms, but I had been hit in the head and had gotten a concussion. I had a huge bruise on my back.

My dad and brother came. They slept on the couch in the hospital room and cried with me. By the time I got home five days later, I was a wreck. I immediately took down all of the pictures of my mom and I in my room. I threw them away. I didn't want to ever look at them again.

We had the funeral, which I bawled at. I prayed for my mom, that she was in a good place. We are a very religious family, and we're Christians. Every night we would have a family bible study and talk about things.

I went to some counseling classes, but they didn't help much. I cried some more. I got scars on my arms and legs from the cuts that never went away. And here I am now, four years later.

I hardly smile anymore. How can I? My mother is dead. I killed my mother.

So now, as I sit in my room, I think. Mom. How do I get you back?