The Funeral

I think I could come up with a better title, but I don't feel like thinking. For a contest.

                I was sitting in a candle lit funeral home for my father. My father died at the age of forty-five.  He was in an accident a few days ago. And he died in the hospital. Sadly I was there when he died. I didn’t really think about it at the time he was going to die. He was always a fighter and well I thought he was going to fight through this I was wrong though.

                My Dad used to work as a firefighter. He would save people from burning buildings. He would always risk his life for other people. I didn’t think I would watch my father die from an accident. I was only about five when he was a firefighter. Now I am thirteen years old. My mother and father are the same age.  They are a couple of months apart though. They had me when they were thirty-two. I’m only thirteen years old.

                For the funeral I was wearing a black laced dress. It was kind of short, but no one minded because I was petite. My light brown hair was put up into a bun. I had a sad expression written on my face. I saw a photograph of my mother and father. It was black and white. My mother and father were just getting married at the time and they didn’t have enough money to get the pictures down in color. They were content with what they had. I was happy too. I asked my mother after the funeral if we could hang that picture up in the living room. She shook her head no and said that I could keep it in my room. I was crying when she said no. I guess she just didn’t want to have a reminder that my father was dead. I didn’t know what to think because I was young. I know this is hitting me very hard. I am becoming depressed now.

                I didn’t want to for the sake of my mother, but I didn’t want to hurt her. I knew that if she was hurt she would lose it and put me up for adoption. She tried to once, but my father stopped her. He told her that he loved me and he wanted me in his life. I was about twelve years old when that happened…which was actually a couple of months ago. I had turned thirteen a few days before my father died. I didn’t think this tragedy would strike me so soon after my birthday.

                “Mommy,” I called in a small voice. She didn’t even look down at me. I knew I was a burden to her. I didn’t really want to be. If I did anything wrong she would send me to a home. I knew how she was and I didn’t really like it.  

                “What,” her voice hard and very sad.

                “I’m scared,” she said. Before I knew it she smacked me in the mouth. I looked up with her with my big dark brown eyes holding tears in them. She didn’t like for me to show weakness especially being scared. I didn’t know what to do. I just looked forward and stared at the picture. I was holding my Mom’s hand and she was crying silently to herself which I noticed. Everyone in the room that knew my father was sitting there. I saw my Aunt Jamie and Uncle Fred. I let go of my Mom’s hand and walked over to them. Uncle Fred was my dad’s brother. I wanted to stand near them afraid that I was going to get hit again. He picked me up because he was strong and tall so he could hug me. I just knew that I was safe. After the funeral my mother glared at me. It was because I was standing next to my Uncle. She hated him and she had always hated him, but I don’t know why she did. My Uncle was a very loving person and he never did anything to hurt anyone. I guess my mother thought he was weak.

                “Time to go home,” she said to me sweetly though I could see that her eyes were blazing with anger. I nodded and followed her out to the car. I sat in the back seat of the car because I didn’t want to be around my mother at that point.

                “When we get home go straight to your room,” she said. She threw the picture to me and it almost broke. She laughed at me when I fell and hurt myself.  When my mother fell asleep I went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife to cut some of the ham. It was a sharp knife, but it helped me get through the meat. I was about to cut the meat when my finger met the blade. I didn’t scream or cry because I didn’t want to wake up my mother.

                “The pain of the blade felt pretty good,” I thought to myself. From that point on I began cutting myself. My mother didn’t find out until I was in a hospital bed. She was worried about me at that point. She beat me for scaring her. I ran away and continued cutting though I had a near death experience. I went and lived with my aunt and uncle. I was happier and I didn’t need to cut after that.