\"Writing.Com
*Magnify*
SPONSORED LINKS
Printed from https://writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1304080-Death
Item Icon
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Death · #1304080
about a girl going through the grief of her moms death. PLEASE HELP WITH PLOT.
Prologue

I stared at the coffin. Tears had made a home of my face, it seemed they were always there… it was permanent.
The flowers on top of the big, black box were daisies, my mom’s favorite.
“Abby? Are you okay?” My sister Bethany asked a little distorted from the past few days.
I said nothing.
I felt no need to speak. My mom couldn’t speak so why should I even talk at all?
“Well when you are ready to talk I’m here you know that” she said walking away.
How dare her! Our mother just died and she’s greeting friends and family and planning a funeral party. This is certainly not a celebration.
I walked up to the box, and placed my right hand on the top of it. This torment was unbearable. And the bitterness of hatred against Bethany who couldn’t shed one tear for my dear mother, OUR dear mother, was killing me.
I felt a rush of memories flow through me as I caressed the box like a newborn baby.
Like the time when I gave her daisies for Valentines Day, or when she said I couldn’t go to the biggest party of the year. Oh how I hated her then, and oh how I hated her now for leaving me. The bitterness of hatred flowed back again, and the tears did too.

Chapter One
Living with weird people.


Once we left the funeral home I rode home with Bethany.
“Now honey we are going to pack up our stuff and me and you are going to live at aunt Carrie’s okay?” she said seemingly happy about it.
How could she be happy living with people in our family we barley know? It wouldn’t be the same. Nothing is the same as your mother waking you up in the morning to get ready for school. Or how she always has a hot towel ready for you when you get out of the shower. Or how when she stops to get gas she would always buy you something instead of getting her something. How would that be the same? Especially with aunt Carrie who is the strictest person I know.
I nodded my head still in silence; no one could make me talk.
“ You have to talk sometime you know?” Bethany cheered
I wiped another tear from my left cheek, and acted like I was looking at the mailboxes. Oh how they looked so nice, well crafted, and colorful… blah blah blah.
Finally Bethany pulled into the driveway of what used to be a happy household. I just stared at it I couldn’t go in there. I would be reminded by her from everything. The smell, the colors, her clothes. I couldn’t do it.
“Come on”
I just sat there. I looked Bethany Square in the eyes. This time I didn’t have to say anything she knew I couldn’t do it.
“You have to Abby, come on now pay your respects” She nodded and motioned me to get out of the car.
I wanted to scream and shake her. How dare her. She has the ordasity to tell me to pay my respects when she was planning a party? Uh huh yeah right she should be telling herself that. I couldn’t trust anyone anymore.
“Come on!” Her voice grew louder and more impatient
I slowly eased myself out of the car and tried to just take it one step at a time. I took my left foot and put it in front of my right, which felt like it weighed a million pounds.
“Come on Abby I don’t have all day lets get this over with” Bethany repeated
I paced myself and I tuned out Bethany’s voice. I only listened to my own. The one in my head that was saying ‘ do this slow don’t rush yourself’
I finally got in the house and I knew I shouldn’t have gone in. I smelled the two-day-old casserole in the kitchen and even though it was a disgusting smell, I somehow tolerated it and somehow found it a comfort, a way to vent without talking.
“ Heads Up!” Bethany shouted
She threw a duffle bag at me and I barley caught it.
“Nice catch” she said smiling
I rolled my eyes at her and quickly ran upstairs to my bedroom.
I walked into the room that seemed so empty and corrupted now. I slowly touched one foot in, and then the other slowly ‘don’t rush yourself’ my head said. I walked over to the window and peered out. I saw blue skies. How ironic on a day like this God lets us have blue skies, wow as if I hadn’t been punished enough.
I walked to my closet door and slowly opened it. I placed my duffle bag on the bed. I saw a few other duffle bags on the floor and decided to put those on the bed too. I might as well pack, as much as I can cause I’m never coming back.
I threw everything I could in just one duffle bag. Clothes, shoes, books, movies, makeup, everything. Then I went over to my desk and picked up my laptop that lay gently on the wood. Oh how I hated wood. Oh how I hated everything.
I grasped it under my forearm and that somehow balanced the weight of the duffle.
I walked slowly and paced myself down the stairs. ‘Slow and steady wins the race’ my head said again.
As I slowly creped down the stairs. My sister called to me from the kitchen.
I heard her voice but I didn’t follow.
I spotted her car keys on the old wooden table aunt cami gave us for Passover. I couldn’t resist. I was a magnet, and the keys were my demise.
As Bethany called my name again it only pushed me further toward the keys that lay on that wooden Passover table.
I finally picked up the keys and grasped them in my right hand. I would never let go. I held my future in my right hand, and I wasn’t about to let it slip through my fingers like my mom did.
As I then glanced over to the front door, my heart slowed. As if any minuet Bethany would walk in and catch me red handed. But I didn’t care. I needed out. Out of this life, out of this house, out of this place.
I grabbed the handle to the door and slowly turned so that Bethany wouldn’t hear the loud screeching noise it made every time we tried to sneak out of the house. As the door opened I felt a surge throughout my entire body.
I could be free. Finally free. No sister, no school, no rules, no nothing. I could be my own parent. I didn’t need anyone. I fast walked out of the house and opened the car door.
© Copyright 2007 AMY CHILD (ajacob23 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1304080-Death