Mother - Chapter 1

I was ten years old when my father looked down upon me, saying, “She died.”  I never knew how to handle my mother’s death.  I tried everything – from mourning at her grave and praying to her, to vandalism and drugs.  Nothing seemed to help – if anything, the drugs helped more than the rest of them.  I did them for a while, just by myself.  Just me and my music, and my bags of drugs.  Nobody knew until one day, there was a knock on the door.

“Shannon, open up!”  I didn’t recognize the voice at first. Shit, I thought.  I was high.  I continued to do my drugs, and ignored the intense knocking, that was practically shaking my entire apartment.  “Shannon!”  I stood up from the couch, wobbled a little bit, and attempted to walk in a straight line.  I opened the door.

My pupils were completely dilated and my cheeks were flushed.  “Yes?” I mumbled, barely keeping my head up and my eyes open.

“I wanted to go to get lunch,” the unknown figure seemed to scream at me.  “I’ve been knocking on your door for five minutes. But I knew you were home – your eyes.  Are you okay?”

I saw a dark apparition zoom past the person at my door.  My back erected, and my eyes grew larger.  This caught my attention.  “What was that!”  My attention stayed on the dark apparition.

“What was what?” the person asked.  “Shannon, you’re scaring me.”  The person barged into my apartment and noticed the bags and bags of drugs on my table.  They looked at me, their eyes filled with concern.  “Shannon, do you know who I am?” they asked.  I shook my head.  “I’m your older sister, Marie.  Shannon, how long have you been doing this?”

I had a sister? I guess I forgot.  I also forgot how long I’ve been doing the drugs.  I shrugged.  Marie’s expression turned from worry and compassion, to frustration and anger.  She had had enough, enough of coming home to our brothers who were drunk every night.  Enough of coming home to our father who was passed out on the couch from God-knows-what every night.  Enough of dealing with our dysfunctional family, plus the fact that we don’t have a mother. Every night.  She glared at me.

“I’ve had enough of this.”  Called it, I thought to myself.  I totally called that she had had enough.  “If you want to ruin your life, go ahead.  It’s your life, and I can’t do anything about it.”  She walked out.  This was the first moment that I realized someone cared, and that I shouldn’t be doing this.  I disposed of my drugs many different ways.  I put some down the disposal, I flushed some down the toilet, and some of it – I just threw away.  I did this all while I was high, yet recovering. I realized that I had needed to change.

That was the story of my drug use.  Nothing else.  Thanks mom, for dying.  Thanks for making me who I am today – a former drug abuser and alcoholic.  Yes, an alcoholic.  I decided recently that I hate my mom for this.  She could have lived and I would have been a completely different person.  I have so many memories of her, though.  Like that time we went to the park, and I fell.  She had comforted me so well that I forgot what had happened ten minutes before.

“It’s a nice day out, let’s go!” I remember my mother saying, putting on a sweater.  It was a day where you needed a sweater to go outside, but didn’t need a heavy winter jacket.  That day that is just nice enough to be outside.  “Want to play in the swings?”  I was only six.  I simply enjoyed swings, no one ever knew why.  Maybe it’s because it felt like I was soaring above the world, and nothing could touch me.

We walked to the park, hand in hand.  My dad was at home for the day, watching television.  Marie had been eight at the time.  She was at a friend’s house, however, and couldn’t tag along for the ride. 

The park had been beautiful.  Red swings and poles filled the park.  A blue slide had twirled around a large pole, landing into a sandbox.  Kids were playing and jumping around in the sandbox, as more kids slid down, laughed, and returned back to the top of the slide.  I ran over to the swings, and swung like there was no tomorrow.

I wanted to try the slide.  I had never been on a slide before, and it looked enjoyable as the kids came down and had a good laugh.  I climbed to the top of the slide, and started to go down.  My mother was sitting on the bench, reading a book.  I had no idea what she was reading at the time.  I sat my butt down at the top of the slide, and pushed myself down.  I didn’t like this.  I had slid faster and faster.  I couldn’t control myself.  I tried putting my hands on the inside of the slide to control how fast I was going, but I couldn’t.  All it did was slice my hand open, because there was sharp plastic sticking out from the inside.  I wanted it to be over.  I was crying hysterically.  Finally, I fell down into the sandbox headfirst.  The kids all stared at me, not knowing what to do.  I was crying.  My mother looked up, and screamed, “Shannon! Are you okay?” She ran over to me.

She picked me up, and brought me over to the bench.  She had some Neosporin in her pocket, and sprayed it on.  This stung.  This stung even more than having my hand sliced open.  I cried harder.  She kissed my cheek, and nuzzled me. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered into my hear.  I shook my head, implying that it won’t be okay, and she chuckled.  “It will,” she said.  “I promise.”

Those last words didn’t affect me then as much as they do now.  It will be okay.  I promise.  How could she say such a thing, when she’s now six feet under, dead?  I cringed just thinking about it. 

I’m 19, now, and I’m clean and sober.  For now.  No – for good. I have been for a year. My mother is still a part of me, and I can’t get her out of my mind.  I don’t know what to do because she’s always there, almost like she’s right next to me.  I was only 10 when she passed. I guess she just made such an imprint on my life that I can’t forget her.  She was the only one I looked up to, the only one that ever made sense in our family.  She had the most beautiful smile, and the cutest laugh.  All the guys loved her.  Everybody had crushes on her, except for my dad.  That relationship lacked any love or lust.  I wonder to this day why it even existed.

The thing is, though, is that I still don’t know why my mother died.  Was she murdered?  Did she have cancer?  Only my dad knows how she died.  He hid it from me and all of my siblings.  I want to find out.  I recently contacted Marie, the sister I’m most close to – and she decided she was going to help me find out.  I need to know.  Maybe if I find out how she died, I’ll finally be at rest.  My mother will finally be at rest.  Maybe she’s haunting me because she wants me to find out.  Yeah, that’s it.  You want me to find out, don’t you Mom?