Here it is. Sorry it's so long...
I am a poser.
There. I said it. It feels good to be honest-with you and with myself, but if you ask me about this later I’ll deny it. For now, just listen.
I make fun of girls who wish upon stars and dream of big, bright futures; I ridicule those who talk of getting married and living “happily ever after.” I tell them all that they are hopeless Romantics. Sure, a few will have successful careers and some might even have decent marriages, but in all reality, most of them will have one or none. I tell them that perfect is only on TV and that real life, though it tries, can never quite measure up. I tell them that more often than not, you have to choose between your career and your marriage and that those who try to balance both end up losing both. I tell them that tragedy is waiting to strike so don’t get too comfortable with the good things you have because they never last. I tell them that it’s pointless to cry when someone dies because death is imminent. It is only a matter of when-not if.
I tell them all these things, but they never listen. Some call me heartless; others call me realistic. None bother to ask me why I am this way. The truth is: I used to be just like them. I would stare up at the clouds and imagine what life lay ahead for me. I would dream of being a doctor or a lawyer or a firefighter and of all the people I would help. I honestly believed that I would get married some day and have kids and we would all be happy. I lived in a sugar-coated world and thought nothing bad could ever happen to me.
It was this kind of blissful ignorance that ended up hurting me most when I learned that nothing ever goes the way you want it to and that death is indeed a reality.
I was lost in thought as I walked home from the bus stop that day. I was ten and wondering what it would be like to be an archaeologist like Indiana Jones. I imagined going on adventures to far-off exotic lands in Africa and South America and finding mummies and skeletons and old tools used by people thousands of years ago. I was just thinking of how I would escape if some bad guy tied my wrists and feet together and threw me in the ocean as he made off with the all the Aztec artifacts I had discovered in Mexico when I ran into someone, literally. This brought me sky-rocketing out of my day-dream to where I now stood, on the street in front of my house. There were all kinds of flashing lights and people around me were whispering as men and women far ahead of me were hustling and bustling about on the other side of the police barrier. The police barrier that stood between me and my house.
I have always been self-reliant, a person of action, but as I stood there that day watching the smoke rise from my house I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I could only stare in horror as everything I knew was engulfed in the flames that never seemed to be satisfied.
Then a stray thought crossed my mind: My mother. She was inside and no one knew.
We lived in a small town back then-Shreaveport, New Jersey. Everyone in town knew each other and your business was everyone’s business. My mother was the biology teacher at the high school and she volunteered at the local church all the time. Everyone knew her mother was dying and Mom was planning to fly out early this morning to visit her one last time. Everyone thought this was just an empty house, full of memories. They didn’t bother to check inside and now my mother was going to die.
I pushed my way to the front of the now large crowd that had congregated outside my house. A young officer was monitoring the barrier. I didn’t recognize him, which was odd because my father is a cop and, for me, not knowing one of the officers was as rare as snow in south Texas.
“Excuse me, Mister?” my voice cracked with worry. “What?” he said with annoyance before realizing that I was just a little girl. I cringed. “I need to get over there.” I said urgently as I pointed over by the fire-fighters. I needed to find my mother and this man was slowing me down. “Well, I’m sorry Miss but you can’t.” I was losing my patience by then. “Mister, I live there! My father is Sheriff Rembrandt and this is my house and my mother is in that burning building, so would you PLEASE LET ME BY!” Why wouldn’t the oaf just let me through? The man’s eyes widened as what I said registered. “Your father is…your mother is…?” I just nodded. He rushed off. “Wait right here. I have to go make a call.” He wouldn’t be quick enough, I knew. And that’s why I slipped past the police barrier, past the firemen and women who didn’t notice me, and into my burning house.
There was smoke everywhere. It smelt of fire: burning wood, burning fabric, burning plastic. I was terrified, but I got on all fours and crawled anyways. “Mom?” I called out weakly in between coughing on all the smoke. It wasn’t unbearably hot because the fire-fighters had succeeded in extinguishing most of the flames, which both worried and reassured me. If the flames were mostly gone, it meant that I would be less likely to get hurt while searching for my mother. On the contrary, if the flames were gone it meant my mother had all the time while they fought to save our house to die of smoke inhalation or whatever else. But there was no time to think of such things now as I went from room to room, searching. I could hear people behind me. They called out to me telling me to come back. I ignored them and kept going, determined to find my mother. Eventually, I couldn’t even call out anymore because my every time I tried to speak, I merely coughed.
I finally found her in her and Dad’s bedroom. She was splayed out on the floor, facedown, a melted basket of what was once clean laundry next to her. Deep down, I knew she was dead. Her hair and clothes were burned, her skin was blacked in some areas, red and inflamed in others. But still, that stupid hopeful part of me refused to give up and believe she was really dead. That stupid, stupid part of me turned her over to see her face.
Half of it was gone, melted and burned away like the laundry basket and the clothes inside. I could see parts of her skull blackened form the fire, and parts of flesh, burnt to a crisp, the still-stuck skin.
When I saw her, I made no noise, no movement, nothing. I simply stared in astonishment, unable to look away from the gruesome sight before me. I hoped none of it was real. I told myself it wasn’t her. This wasn’t my house. This was all just a horrible nightmare and I would wake up and feel her loving arms around my once again as she sent me off to school.
Then, like a wave, reality hit, fording me to accept it. Tears sprang to my eyes and my lips formed a silent “Why?” The firemen who had followed chased me in here finally found me. I heard them coming but didn’t turn around. I could practically hear the astonishment on their faces as their minds registered my mother’s lifeless body. “Oh my God, Bill. You told me no one was in here!” “No one was supposed to be! She was supposed to be on a flight to see her dying mother today!”
I turned around and glared at them, tears in my eyes. “Yeah, well, she was sick and decided to stay home and look what you’ve done. She’s dead.” My voice cracked as I said that last word. Dead. It just sat on my tongue. I burst into tears at that moment, curled up in a ball on the floor. “Come on, let’s get you out of here,” one man said as he reached for me. “No!” I screamed as I jumped to my feet, startling both him and myself. “I don’t want to go with you! You killed my mother! YOU KILLED HER! You killed her…” At this I broke into fitful sobs again, but allowed them to lead me out of the house with tears streaming down my cheeks and a heaviness on my heart.
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