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TW: SUICIDE
⎯⎯୨୧⎯⎯
"You're a failure, [Y/n]."
My father looked into my eyes for the first time. And his first words to me was that. At the funeral of my own child.
My husband had made everybody believed I left the baby unattended and it died after pushing himself and the cradle over. That it was my fault. They believed he was an idiot child of an idiot mother.
Few people were at the cemetery where the funeral was held, thought all of them seemed to be looking at me. Whispers and lies that they knew I could hear. Murmurs of me. I almost wanted to laugh as I was kneeling down to watch his small coffin being placed into the ground. He shouldn't be in the dirt, with the worms and the bugs. He should be in my arms, letting me hold him as he flashed his gummy smile. But all that was left was a lifeless body of a deformed child. My child.
I couldn't cry. I physically, mentally couldn't. No matter how much I wanted to, no matter how much my heart ached. My tears didn't form in my dry, tired eyes.
Prayer. A wish, a dream, to somebody who may or may not be real. It was a pure gamble, and foolish me hoped that all my hard work and sufferings would blossom in God's garden and be handpicked. I hoped the tears I shed could water my stem, the words I couldn't say be like the petals I displayed, and the torture I bared with be like the thorns he could admire.
But the day I watched the earth cover my son's coffin, I believed in nothing. I had nothing left in me, I had lost everything I had to lose. I was hollow and nothing, like the doll I was.
