Beautifully Broken

“Mama?” My voice is barely above a whisper full of sleep. I stumble down the hallway heading to our living room where I can see the only light in the house coming from the fireplace. Stuffed bunny in hand I make my way to the end of the hall trying to find my mother.

“Mama?” I squeak, squeezing my stuffed Bunny.

My mothers silhouette is barely visible from where I'm standing. Just an amber glow from the dimming fireplace allows me to see she's sprawled out on the living room floor. Her beautiful brown curls escaped in every direction. Her porcelain skin shines like diamonds against the light of the embers. She doesn't respond. I take a step from the hallway to the living room inching towards her. As I take a step closer I wince in pain, broken glass is scattered across the floor, and that's when I see the rest of the mess. Books from my mothers library that took up the north wall of the room are thrown across the floor. A few broken glasses and the lamp hangs by the cord off the end table. I can't process what’s happening but my body does. I'm shaking, and can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Blood burning though my veins like fire as I inch closer and closer to my mothers lifeless body. Her baby pink robe is open, showing her Grey Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, and Blue shorts.

Sniffling coming from the hall that leads to my brother's room draws my attention away from my mother. My Father emerges from the dark. He's holding something in his hand. He looks sad, broken, disheveled even. I can see the wetmarks from his tears streaming down his face, His thick black hair is a mess, a bead of red is trailing down his forehead. He looks as though he hasn’t even slept. What time is it? How would I know, I'm only three. He doesn't seem to notice me, he’s looking at my mother, as a sob escapes his lips. He takes a shaky breath in before turning the gun on himself. Squeezing his eyes shut. BOOM!

I jolt up from my bed as I gasp, taking in as much air as my lungs can handle breathing a sign of relief that it was just a nightmare. I can feel the beads of sweat dripping down my back as I lean over to check my phone. It’s 4:47am. I've only been asleep for around 3 hours but that's a regular occurrence for me. I haven't slept more than a 4 hour stretch since the night my family was killed twenty-two years ago. Running a hand through my hair brushing it from my face I slide out of bed. My stuffed bunny falls to the floor and I stumble to the bathroom.

With a flick of my finger, the bathroom light is on and I'm greeted with the ungodly mess that is my hair. Leftover curls from the day before are hidden in the rats nest that has taken over the rest of my head. My black shirt hangs slightly off my shoulder, with another portion of the shirt tucked under my boob. With a grumble I turn the shower on and undress, turning on some music to help calm the thudding in my body. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I step into the hot water.

Five things I can see ....“Pink Razor, Shampoo bottle, body wash, conditioner, loofah" I take a deep breath remembering what my therapist Melissa taught me.four things I can feel “Water” I pause feeling the water run down my body. “Floor, shower curtain, Tiles” I run my fingers across the tiles that line the back of the shower.

I pause for a moment before continuing.three things I can hear…. “Water in the pipes, cars driving down the street, music”

Taking a deep breath in, I search for two things I can smell: “coffee… Lavender”

One thing I can taste…“Morning breath” a breathy scoff escapes my lips as I run my tongue through my mouth.

With my nerves calmed I take my time in the shower, washing the remnants of the memories away. Searching for even a sliver of normalcy in this fucked up world.

Once I'm out of the shower, I grab a red shirt, a pair of leggings and a hoodie. With it being mid September here the morning tends to be in the forties. I make my way down the narrow hallway, stepping around moving boxes I've left unopened for the past six months, to the small kitchen. Thank god the coffee pot is already brewing. I grab creamer out of the fridge and make a cup before making my way to the balcony. I snag my laptop and a blanket off the back of the couch,and take a seat in my tan papasan nestled in the corner. Opening up my laptop I see the unclosed tabs from the night before.

“Waterfield man kills wife, and 2 children before killing himself”

“Father named as killer in Murder-Suicide that left one child orphaned”

“Parents and 2 children killed in apparent murder-suicide”

“3 year old left orphaned after parents and siblings killed”

Every article I read about that night makes my blood boil. Nothing about that night made sense. Every memory I have of my father was nothing short of amazing. He was always a loving, and doting father. He never raised his voice at us kids, never hit us. Hell the man cried at my first and only dance recital. He was nothing like the man the media made him out to be; Family annihilator, cruel, a monster.

I've made it my mission to find out what happened that night, The real story. I torture myself with these articles. Analyzing every police report, finding detectives who were there that night that were willing to speak with me. That had been harder than I thought though. Every detective that was there that night was either dead, or refused to speak to me about it. I just hoped that something would stand out. That something will bring the memory back that will tell the truth of what happened. Something that can answer the questions I've been left asking myself for the past twenty-two years.