The Screaming Hope
But what do you do when you're hurt?
“The security system must be strengthened. I don’t want a mistake like this to happen again. If there wasn’t an alarm set on the opening of the coffer, behind the canvas, we would have never known she opened it. She could have taken these documents and given them to bad persons; the war could have begun, faster and messier than planned. Come on, hide them and work on the reinforcement of the security system!” the man with a mustache and an accent said.
Ashes and flames were coupled, raining on the body of a woman, a woman who is my mother. Who was my mother. “Is” or “was”, it doesn’t change a single thing. She is till the target of the flames, powerless.
Just as powerless as my self-serving person. I don’t deserve to be called her son. To have been called her son. “Be” or “have been”, it doesn’t change a single thing.
During a long period of time, I felt inexistent. Numb. The only thing I felt was sweat mixed with tears, fighting on my skin. And my eyes refusing to blink; if I blinked, I’d feel acting more cowardly than I already am.
That’s exactly what I am. A coward.
The fiery orange became the only color existent for both of my eyes. I wasn’t feeling the rest of my body anymore.
But at one particular moment, the uneven screams of my mother turned into a sharp, straight and very high-pitched shout. The pain in it stabbed me in the heart.
And that was it, at this one particular moment, I felt nothing in my body but my heart, aching, twining, struggling to escape from my chest and causing me to almost throw up. Putting my right hand on my mouth to prevent me from making any noise, a little tear escaped my left eye, the water blurring the scene in the tiny space in between the cupboard’s doors. The scene of my mother burning.
The body of my mother gave up. The mass of it falling, the screams and shouts stopping, the flames fading.
- Clean all this mess, the motherfucker who killed my mother said.
Delicately, I sat on the cupboard’s floor, hugging my knees, drying my eyes on the fabric of my jeans.
I think I passed out in this position.
Ashes and flames were coupled, raining on the body of a woman, a woman who is my mother. Who was my mother. “Is” or “was”, it doesn’t change a single thing. She is till the target of the flames, powerless.
Just as powerless as my self-serving person. I don’t deserve to be called her son. To have been called her son. “Be” or “have been”, it doesn’t change a single thing.
During a long period of time, I felt inexistent. Numb. The only thing I felt was sweat mixed with tears, fighting on my skin. And my eyes refusing to blink; if I blinked, I’d feel acting more cowardly than I already am.
That’s exactly what I am. A coward.
The fiery orange became the only color existent for both of my eyes. I wasn’t feeling the rest of my body anymore.
But at one particular moment, the uneven screams of my mother turned into a sharp, straight and very high-pitched shout. The pain in it stabbed me in the heart.
And that was it, at this one particular moment, I felt nothing in my body but my heart, aching, twining, struggling to escape from my chest and causing me to almost throw up. Putting my right hand on my mouth to prevent me from making any noise, a little tear escaped my left eye, the water blurring the scene in the tiny space in between the cupboard’s doors. The scene of my mother burning.
The body of my mother gave up. The mass of it falling, the screams and shouts stopping, the flames fading.
- Clean all this mess, the motherfucker who killed my mother said.
Delicately, I sat on the cupboard’s floor, hugging my knees, drying my eyes on the fabric of my jeans.
I think I passed out in this position.
Notes
I hope you enjoyed it, -comment/rate/subscribe- and have a nice day or rest of the day :)
@nuclearcloud
I'm not fantabulous, silly... But awww thank you ;)
3/7/14