Was It a Dream?

[Wulfi]

My mother was killed in a bank robbery.

She was the robber.

[Golden Emblem]

Interesting concept, but I'd like to see more.

[Wulfi]

lol.

Don't worry, first chapter was meant to be this long.

[killerinstinct]

Wait... ... Was meant or wasn't meant?

[Wulfi]

Was.

[killerinstinct]

... Oh. o.o

[Wulfi]

[Short chapter is short, since it's a flashback.]


. Two .
Relinquishment

----------

It wasn't like I was oblivious to it. The whole charade was evident, even with the way she carried herself.

My mother was a proud, kind individual. She would strut into a room and smile, and people would stand and grin, overcome with relief, glee, and love at the radiance which poured forth from her. Her smile would push the flesh of her cheeks just high enough until risen to cup her eyes, a brilliant shade of the most sincere aquamarine. Her features were strong, yet elegant, and she had height to rival even that of my father.

And with a strut she bore confidence into me, and with a frown, she could take it away.

I was a writer, but not a novelist--Lord, no, not by a long shot--nor a columnist, for that matter. I was a writer in the field of efficient, elaborate poetry. I did not often tell people that I was a "poet," or rather, I never utilized the term, for those not of literary mind tend to take the term lightly. Even those accustomed to the craft of writing had their doubts of my prowess.

I would show them my work. They would smile and nod. I felt no genuine care from them, nor appreciation.

When my mother saw me pounding away fervently at the keys of my laptop, there emerged a side of her that only I had seen, a side that I only I could see. I would let no other experience this. I loved my mother. They did not need to be witness to her madness.

Often she would storm to me, those stone-smooth eyes caustic, and slam the device closed, catching my fingers. I would let out a brief cry and draw back, yet as time went on, I learned to expect it. This violent course of action had become routine. I have been cursed at, berated, yelled at, and blamed for things I have not in this world even heard of.

"Tomás," she would chide without fail. "Tomás, quit writing those poems! They're useless! Go back to your homework so you can go to college and make some real money!"

Mother was greedy. I don't think anyone really knew this but me.

Every night she would go off somewhere, a place of ambiguity of which I was unaware. However, I knew for sure that when she came home in the wee hours of the morning, that certain strut in her stride, that she'd accomplished what she'd set out to do.

I had my suspicions, don't get me wrong. Mother had a well paying job that paid for the needs of both myself and my younger sister, but it didn't pay that much.

When it was our turn to come down to the morgue and identify the body, at the request of a friend, my older brother, home from college, wouldn't let me see her. That's when I knew.

Mother was strong. Mother was brave. Yet there was a side to Mother that not even Ismael, nor even my little Carmen, knew of.

I can feel the road beneath me as we proceed. We're going over a bridge. I hear the high hum of the Firestone against the bridge itself, singing a single note, until we hit the blacker pavement again, and the hum drops in both pitch and volume.

My mother robbed that bank. My mother was a thief. Perhaps her greatest theft was stealing the trust of others, like the kind people at the PTA meetings, and my father.

I am unmoving, as is Ismael. Carmen is asleep beside me, small and innocent, unknowing of the deeds Mother has done. I pray she never know such evil. Brother exits the car to meet with an aunt who has just pulled up and parked. I do not see her face.

I might look up to see the greenery of the land, yet my eyes remain down.

I am careful as to not stir my little sister. The painstaking motions with which I unscrew the lid are slow, precise.

And so as I close my laptop, the car has arrived at the memorial service. I see the procession, and I can't help but feel sorry for all of them.

They'll never know. Only I.

[pyroflasher]

LOVE IT!

[Wulfi]

It has come to my attention that the theme of overdosages, to some members, is not represented throughout my chapter.

I'd like to point out that it is. Upon analyzing the text, one can see that both key characters in this chapter express the very basics of overdose. Tomás represents a more direct approach to the theme, at the end where he ODs on pills, though the mother also represents a different form of overdose, wherein her habits of theft and crime become too risky and heavy, and lead to her death.

Overdose was never specified to be drug-centered when the theme was assigned, so I wove it into the text in terms of a more metaphorical sense.

I hope that clears things up, to those who were unsure. : )