My mother broke every plate in the house that day. I watched her in her tantrum; I could hear her screaming and crying. It was sad depressing and terrifying I was unable to anything for her. My tears rolled down from my eyes past the shivering lips, dropping down to the floor and dissipate from view.
With a fierce look, combined with tears, fury, anger and loss mum was pulling open every cabinet door. Cornflakes thrown around, dropping silently like snowflakes on every surface it could land one. Her agonising screams go through marrow and bone, making your hair stand up in the back of your neck. Her cries of an animal in pain, screams of a female warrior on a war path echo through the neighbourhood.
I reach out to her, but fear keeps me from truly touching. Outside people are banging on the doors, looking through windows to see what is going on.
But they will hear the same and see the same what I do. My mum hurt bleeding all over the floor from her feet that had been walking across the shards of glass and porcelain. From her hands thick red rubies shimmer for a moment, until they hit the floor and splatter apart in all directions.
Her face turning a whiter pale when the last drawer is opened, a silent prayer leaving her bitten lips towards the ceiling. “God why are you so cruel to me”. Her eyes, circled black from the running mascara, fade to a dull and staring state. She lowered her head down to the drawer that belonged to her husband, one only to be opened when in need. She turned blind in all her suffering. One look was all it took for me to understand. And standing beside her looking down inside polka dotted decorated drawer.
My mind wanted to say no, I know I screamed with all my might, but she did not hear me. She did not listen to all the people outside screaming through broken windows. She was in her own world, In a state where nobody could reach her. In her hand the gun ready and loaded it had laid dormant for so long. Not a muscle moved, or sound was heard when she walked across the broken glass and even knifes.
I remember the movies of zombiefied people feeling nothing and just walk on auto pilot. She just sat down on the chair holding the gun like a baby in her hands. Her hand was rubbing the barrel, following the curve of the trigger with her finger. Her tears falling onto the handle, she whispered “I have no more reasons to live”
With my mind and body reacting, I launched at my mum, trying to stop her in the tumult of shouts and screams. Neighbours rushing in through the doors and windows, while sirens of police and ambulance are heard coming down the street. Finally they are here to help my mum.
One look away, one small smile turned into tears and shock with one single blow. A single shot echoing through the kitchen, the silence of all who stood halfway in the house. All but the sirens are dunked in silence. Never before was it so deafening as the moment my mother’s head hit the table, the now warm metal making the pieces of plates ring and crackle some more, dropping down to the floor and bouncing in slow motion before laying still.
That day my mother broke every plate in the house. And it was my fault.
Three days later I stood on a field of green with all those neighbours and family gathered around two open graves. The head stones carved from black marble, carved letters spelling the names of those being buried, filled with a gold paint.
I read the names within my head. There beside my father now the white coffin is lowered. “Here rest a beloved wife and devoted mother. Reunited in peace with her family. Mary Juliana Paletineo. Loved and lived: Aug 02, 1954 – May 11, 2013”
As the second coffin is being lowered, I just stood in shock. “Here lies Louis Palentineo, A beloved son who lived for speed like his father. Loved and lived: Jul 23, 1985 – May 11, 2013” On top of the lid a newspaper article in a black frame. ‘Mother takes own life after son’s crash’.
Well this is a story of fiction, obviously. The inspiration was nothing more than a prompt from the lovely ‘Girls who writes’ Her impropteusday was to write a story of at least 500 words within the hour. With the unique starting line. My mother broke every plates in the house that day”.