longer.blue

On September 18th, at approximately 2:43pm - in broad daylight - my mother unlocked the wooden box given to her by her father, pulled out the [FN made Browning High Power Pistol] he had used during his time in the military, pointed it against the right side of her small and light skull, and shot herself. I held that same box in my hands, staring at the empty impression inside. The silk of the box was red - vibrant, not like blood. Its vibrancy contrasted strongly against my pale hands, which appeared almost gray. The gun, of course, was taken in as evidence. Much to my dismay. Closing the box, I sighed heavily, my lungs deflating underneath my clothes. I looked around the room whose floor I sat on, its lackluster lighting matching the lack of color in my skin. I knew I would have to do this one day - everyone dies, of course - but I never figured it would be under these circumstances and this soon. Sure, she was in her early 60’s - barely - but that left me only in my mid 30’s. I felt myself shrinking into the age range I truly felt - a small child, abandoned. Her death was weeks ago - all loose ends were tied up, all services were had. All that was left to do was to clean up, rifle through, sort and discard. I placed the pistol box into a larger cardboard box and continued sorting through piles in what was once her bedroom. My father had died years ago from lung cancer, so it had truly been just her bedroom for a while. I picked up a pile of photographs and began to look through them. So many photos from my childhood - I was lucky for that. Older photos of my mother’s life before me. Sitting with her mom, staring off into space. Her dad hugging her from behind mid-motion while she laughed, her long hair blowing in the wind. Lifting a furry, big cat by its front arms to show off its length proudly. Her and my father’s wedding. My first dance recital, her behind me adjusting my tutu while I smiled a big, toothy grin. I paused. She was how I remembered her most recently - so the photograph must have been from the last 5 years or so. Considering how all memories live on our phones now, the picture must have been important enough to print out. She was inside some sort of building I couldn’t recognize, standing next to a man I also couldn’t place. He had a kind smile, and his right arm was around my mother’s upper back. The pose seemed friendly and relaxed, but as I stared closer, I noticed how tense his hand was on her shoulder. My mother’s hands were behind her back, and she smiled blankly - not how I remembered. She was wearing a long-sleeved, flowered dress I had never seen before. I continued to stare at the photo, frantically searching it with my eyes while simultaneously searching my mind with its own, trying to place it…The photo almost pulled me into it…I felt myself beginning to drift…. Rap, rap, rap. I jumped, dropping the photo from my hands. Turning around, I saw my twin brother at the open bedroom door.