My mother held my bleeding body cradled in her arms. Clutching that deep wound, my hands were stained with blood. Some dripped onto the floor as she walked, drops of me returning to the earth.
Hands trembling she lowered my body. The jolt of a transition had me screaming in pain. I felt the grass beneath my naked body. The winds caused every hair on my body to stand on end; my shivering looked like convolutions. My mother grabbed my hand. I looked in her eyes confused as she extended my arm and opened my fingers.
She slid a knife in my hand, and my finger curled around the handle. I laid there flabbergasted from the fatal blow and now this? My mother stood up. I saw her step backwards, huddled with my father.
The pain was easing up.
I wasn’t as cold anymore.
They said, “I am sorry that you did this to yourself.”
I felt a new perspective shifting as I took inhales through my nostrils.
I wasn’t shaking any longer.
A teenage girl, died that November morning.
My mother would speak at my funeral calling the suicide a tragedy she saw coming all along.
xxx
I freewrote a story off of this picture:
Source: The Right Hand Brain.