Boy of Sorrow

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Chapter 15

“Mommy, can I pick out a story?” six year old me said. My mother and I was huddled in my bed late at night, her soft arms wrapped around me securely as if she was afraid that someone was going to snatch me away from her in the darkness. I had a nightmare not too long ago, something about clowns emerging from my bed and snatching my sleeping form. It was my screaming in the night that my mother came running out of her room in the speed of light and having her hug me tightly in fear that her only child was frighten and scared of something. “Sure, Honey any book you want.”

She said to me lovingly as I wiggled myself out of my mothers warm embrace temporarily and carefully leaned towards the book case I had near my bed. My mother on the other hand flicked the switch light on one of the lamp so that way we were able to see more clearly.

The book I chose out was one of my favorite books at the time, it still is. “This again?” My mother asked. She shook her head slightly as if she was disappointment even though I saw a slight smile on her lips.

“Yes!” I said giddily. I jumped up and down the bed slightly as if to prove my eagerness to her.

Mother laughed as she saw how silly I was acting but immediately grabbed me and held me closer to her once more before immersing ourselves in the art of storytelling once more.

I woke up in the middle of the night, fear clutching me as I looked to and fro from inside the darkness of the room. One thing to know about me is that I hated the dark, you never know what could be lurking in it and that absolutely terrified me the most. Sounds of creaking and screeching echoed lightly around me, suffocating me as I tried to huddle in my blanket like a shield even though at the age of sixteen I knew it wasn't going to help me in a long run. No light was visible at the moment, all of the streetlights in our street have been either turned off or gone out by themselves through over use and lack of care. I was in complete and total darkness and I didn't like it one bit. I nervously got on my feet and tiptoed to the switch and flicked it on, only that no light was coming through.

Great. I thought, my dad didn't pay the electric bill.

I was back at square one of going back to my bed and huddle in the darkness, not an ounce of sleep came back to me that night as I once again tossed and turned into my bed. I eventually gave up and proceeded to stare at the windowsill that I began to wonder even more where my life is heading to compared to the life I had before my mother died. Thinking about her death still hurts me and I am sure that I haven't moved on from it but neither has my father. That is the one thing I suppose, that we have in common. We can't seem to move on. We are always stuck into the past and that is both our strength and our greatest down fall, because if we can't learn to accept it, how can we grow from it?

I stiffled a sigh as I came to a conclusion that Life is difficult while Death is simple.


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