I had been in a state of numbness for a week. The world around me was still spinning, but my world had come to an unexpected halt. The element of time was erased. I felt nothing, emotionless. My family was scurrying around making arrangements; each one of them lost in their own nightmare, scripted with confusion and shock. The time separating the dreaded day from the present day crept closer, definitely, but almost unnoticeably. Each day slowly bled into the next; every second was spent wishing it away. As if out of nowhere, the day arrived. My sister clutched my hand as we walked in the sanctuary and sat in the second row from the front. People; some who I’ve never met, close friends, family members, distant relatives, people filled the room. They all sat silently, trying to keep control of their composure. I wanted to wake up from this nightmare. I needed to. I finally had the courage to look. My dad, my precious dad, lay still at the front of the church with his eyes shut. The morbid dream played on, “just let me wake up!” my insides screamed, pleaded. My mom was seated next to me, holding my hand. I had come to detest her over the past two years, she sat crying. Something inside me told me it was all a facade. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she had some part in this. It came time for everyone to say their goodbyes. My feet walked me to the casket, all emotion somehow absent. How much longer would I have to sleep through this? This couldn’t be my dad. His complexion was too soft, too fake. But his body, his hair, it was so like his own. I didn’t want to touch him. If I touched him, this was real. If I touched him there was a possibility I might feel a bullet hole instead of flesh. Instead I felt his hair, the familiar, thick, course hair that felt so much like mine. Why wouldn’t my body wake me up? I gently kissed the top of his head, the only part of his body I knew was unharmed, and whispered to him that I’d love and miss him. The tears streamed down my cheeks. This wasn’t a dream. This was my new reality.
The next day seemed to pass even more unhurriedly. Could it not feel the urgency of closure? The pain, almost unbearable, could only be endured if emotion was divided from actuality. The burial service was, like the funeral, covered with obscurity. There he was again, still lying unmoved. Lifeless. I didn’t watch him get lowered into the dry ground. I couldn’t. He wasn’t supposed to be surrounded by dirt. He needed to be at home, on vacation, somewhere, anywhere other than where he was. He needed to be healthy, breathing. He needed to be with me.
I’m not certain on the number of days that passed before I was informed of who the murderer was. Was it hysteria, madness? Exactly what that initial feeling was, I’m unsure. My mother did this? The deepest feel of anger, resentment, betrayal, every unpleasant feeling imaginable, overwhelmed me. I was consumed in complete and utter rage. The mother I knew no longer existed. She was replaced with someone distant, harmful, someone toxic. I couldn’t fathom what had happened. How could have my mom been so evil? She murdered my dad. She took a life, a precious, beautiful, life. A few more days past, days I spent away from my mother. These days seemed to grasp the concept of urgency. It seemed as if no time went by before my mother had been placed in jail. This was surreal, my mom in jail, my dad murdered. Both of my rocks had crumbled. My hope, my security, my spirits, everything I believed in, was no more.
An emotionless routine started. The days continued to run together. Time passed, but nothing changed. My life had once been a record player, one I embraced. That played songs of hope and joy. But now it was broken, skipping, replaying over and over the brutal tragedy. When would it end? I was closed, I welcomed nothing. Daily tasks, ones usually done without effort, drained every ounce of energy from me. Sleeping became one of my biggest enemies. I would fight it until my eyes could no longer stay open. I knew if I fell asleep, the dreams would start. I couldn’t escape it, sleeping used to be my haven. But, along with everything else, that also changed. Sleep was just one more way fear and anxiety could haunt me.
The days turned to months. Every 5th of the month begging for attention every time it came around. Unconsciously it screamed at me, never letting 31 days pass without forcing me to relive everything I tried so hardly to suppress. Without cautioning me, time sped up. At the time it felt like torturous waiting, now I’m left wondering where it all went. I’m not sure how I’ve made it here today. Somehow, through what seems unsurpassable, I’ve grown. I’m alive, and my life is once again playing its beautiful song. It’s not the same as before, it is now a song of determination. My song sings of strength and courage. It still skips sometimes, taking me back to my unwanted reality, but nevertheless, it plays on, always supplying me with hope for a better ending.
