by Emilija Naumoska (Free Prompt~Free Ebook)
Her hands were cold. That’s the clearest thing I remember from that day - the fact that her hands were cold. But then again, dead people weren't known for having warm bodies, were they? She looked as if she was sleeping, but her eyes were open. I was used to seeing fear lurking inside them, but the relief I saw that day was somewhat expected. I say expected because, after everything she had suffered, deep inside of me, I knew that the only place she would find rest and peace was death.
She looked beautiful, even in death. Her lips bore the slightest hint of a smile. The makeup artist had done a wonderful job. She didn't look like her dad had beaten her to death. She looked so peaceful. She smelled like Chanel’s No.5. It was the first and only gift her daddy gave her, except for the numerous scars and bruises which littered her body almost daily. She had always speculated that her father hated her because she had killed her mother. But is it the baby’s fault if the doctors weren't able to save the mother?
Even today, years later, I can still remember and find our place. The place where I met her and left her. Our little patch of overgrown grass, near the trunk of the weeping willow, next to the river. Today that patch of grass remains mostly unchanged, except for the small marble statue of a dove in flight and a plaque that reads:
“Here lies Sara”
May you always fly with the doves
April, 4th 1990 – May, 8th 2004
Her hands were cold. That’s the clearest thing I remember from that day - the fact that her hands were cold. But then again, dead people weren't known for having warm bodies, were they? She looked as if she was sleeping, but her eyes were open. I was used to seeing fear lurking inside them, but the relief I saw that day was somewhat expected. I say expected because, after everything she had suffered, deep inside of me, I knew that the only place she would find rest and peace was death.
She looked beautiful, even in death. Her lips bore the slightest hint of a smile. The makeup artist had done a wonderful job. She didn't look like her dad had beaten her to death. She looked so peaceful. She smelled like Chanel’s No.5. It was the first and only gift her daddy gave her, except for the numerous scars and bruises which littered her body almost daily. She had always speculated that her father hated her because she had killed her mother. But is it the baby’s fault if the doctors weren't able to save the mother?
Even today, years later, I can still remember and find our place. The place where I met her and left her. Our little patch of overgrown grass, near the trunk of the weeping willow, next to the river. Today that patch of grass remains mostly unchanged, except for the small marble statue of a dove in flight and a plaque that reads:
“Here lies Sara”
May you always fly with the doves
April, 4th 1990 – May, 8th 2004