There comes a phase in everybody’s lives when they want to be ‘alone’. The word itself can be taken two ways. There is ‘loneliness’, which describes the pain of being alone. And then there is ‘solitude’, which expresses the glory in being alone. I wasn’t sure which ‘alone’ I wanted. Either way, I just wanted to be alone.

“Her mother died yesterday.” “I heard she killed herself.” “A daughter like that and anybody would kill themselves.” Giggles. Disgusted looks. Blames. Everything pointed in my direction. In a world like this you would expect people to show some sympathy. But you should never expect things. Love. Sympathy. Affection. Warmth. You should never expect these things. I learned that from my mom after she shot herself. She gave up on me and now I was left to face the cruel world all by myself. My body aches as if a whole crowd of people just ran over me. But it’s not physical pain. It’s the pain of losing. Losing my mom, and then losing life. My dad hasn’t said a word. It’s like she took away everything that defined our happiness. Now all that’s left is dreadful, deafening silence and a life which seems impossible to get through.

“Mom. Mom!” I wake up screaming every night; drenched in sweat and tears running down my cheeks. I never cry; at least not when I’m conscious. But I can’t control those tears when I’m asleep. I can’t control my heart that longs for my mom’s presence each time I force myself to sleep. Those nightmares, her voice, her body when I found her dead on the floor. Her eyes were staring into space as if someone had sucked out each and every bit of life from her body. Her hands so cold, when I touched them I could feel the chills seeping into my skin. “How could she be so selfish? How could she leave me behind, Papa? I hate her! I HATE HER!” I repeat the same questions to my dad every day, hoping he would break the silence. But he just stares at me and then back to her picture. He’s slipping away. Slowly. Fading away from this world just like she did.

The atmosphere of our house was thick and heavy, interlaced with the stench of death, and broken by the screaming silence of sorrow. I’ve stopped going to school. People know what my mother did. And they think it’s because of me and my dad. I have stopped finding comfort in another human’s presence. I feel like humans have a nature of letting down everyone they love. I try to run. But I never get far enough to escape this labyrinth. I want to live in a jungle where no one knows me. Where no one will ever know me.

It’s been 4 days now since she left us. It feels like forever. Such a thing death is. It gobbles up a person who once laughed and danced and cried. And it doesn’t spare the ones that are connected to that person either. I think about life and philosophy a lot now. Experiencing death of someone you loved more than life probably does that to you. Another side-effect of death. Someone knocks on the door. I see two shadows. My heart pounds as I move towards it. I fear human contact now. But I take a deep breath and open it anyways. “Good Morning. We would like to see your father please.” The Police. Their eyes look tired. A gloomy façade as if they had come to notify us of a death. A hollow laugh escapes my lips at that thought. I see their expressions change. Now there’s a look of concern as if they’re scared what I might do after hearing what they have to say. “How could they possibly tell us something worse?” I think to myself. Even though I’m pretty sure my father won’t come out of the gaping void he’s been living in, I lead them to where he spends most of his time sulking and staring at my mother’s pictures. “It’s better that you don’t come in right now.” The officers tell me as they usher me out of the room.

Sitting on the dusty couch just outside my dad’s room I bite my nails nervously. Suddenly I start to think about my Mom and Dad’s relationship which was not going so well since the past year because of my dad’s drinking problem. The thought confuses me at such a moment. My parents loved each other. I was aware of them fighting sometimes when I used to come home from school and know my mother had cried because her eyes looked like shrunken grapes in their hollow sockets. But couples have fights right? That doesn’t mean they stop loving each other. But then it hit my how each night my dad came home late at night reeking of alcohol and each morning my mom looked like a character from the Walking Dead. That couldn’t be. It can’t. I covered my ears as my head started to explode with all those thoughts. I was trapped inside my head and it was so loud. I couldn’t get out. And then I started falling. Falling.

I woke up in hospital bed the next morning. I knew it was a hospital even before I could open my eyes because it smelled like sick people clinging to the medicines in hope for life. I see my aunt who only came over once after my mother died. She looks concerned and scared. I ask for my dad and I see the concern dissolve into terror. I close my eyes and swallow hard as I prepare myself for the coming storm. “Jenna sweetheart I’m so sorry.” She breaks down but I ask her to continue even though I’m breaking from the inside as well. “It was because of him. He used to come home and hit her. The postmortem report said they found bruises and slashes on her body which showed clear harassment and abuse. He admitted himself of being guilty.” She was sobbing hard now. “Your mom was strong but she couldn’t take it anymore. Don’t hate her, honey. Please don’t hate her.” That was the moment I decided what ‘alone’ I wanted. I wanted solitude.

Two years later, I have graduated high school and am studying psychology at a well-known university. My dad is in jail. I don’t go to visit him. Although he writes to me saying sorry, I can’t forgive him. I still think my mom could have tried harder but I didn’t hate her. I never hated her. It was just a storm of emotions which forced me into thinking that. And now even though I’m alone, I’m not lonely. I miss you, mom. I hope you’re proud of me.

I love you.