Murder Diary The Diary Of An Artist

Some things are not meant to be met, but yet sometimes you can’t choose who you want to met. They just suddenly barge in into your life and you are forced to face them―I know because I do too, I’ve ever had an uninvited guest in my life.

I first met death when I was just 6. He just came out of the blue―unexpected, uninvited, unacceptable; and snatches somebody away. Out of any person I knew though, he chooses my mom. No illness, no symptoms, there’s no sign at all― she just suddenly gone, like an ash scattered by the wind.

Back then, I didn’t know. I don’t understand the very meaning of death. Its nature, the pain, sadness and emptiness that it brings―no, I never knew. I was too young and naïve, perhaps too innocent, to fully grasp its significance. All I knew is my mommy is sleeping, a sleep that I never knew when she’ll be awake. I’ve tried to shake her, shout at her ears all to no avail. There was no help from people around me either. My family, my father, brother, aunt and uncles, all never bothered to tell me the truth. Or maybe they’re just too scared, they didn’t want to hurt me, maybe that’s why they keep their mouth shut. Nevertheless, it was a mistake in their part. On some darker thoughts, I think they just didn’t want to take the responsibility or the trouble they’ll get by telling me.

Because of that mistake, I kept living a life, holding into this tiny shard of hope that one day my mom would open her eyes―that is until I became old enough to realize that it was impossible, and my dreams were shattered. Whenever I looked back into that time, the time when I was ignorant to my mother’s death, I always felt guilty, angry, regret. Why can’t I understand then, my mother is dead? Why nobody tells me?

I don’t understand, I never understand. But maybe right now at least I could feel it. The feeling of not wanting to know the truth. Right now, as I stared into Uncle David’s pale rusted face I felt like I wanted to run away. Away to my old naïve self that has nothing to do with death.

This is not the meeting that I wanted. Yet for the second time of my life, I found myself visited by death―and for the second time of my life I’m not ready.

  I mean, how can a man be so drastically changed?

 

I don’t really know.

 

Still, I never thought that THIS face, the face of the dead man that lay underneath me is someone that I knew, someone that I recognized.

 

Neither do I know that this man IS Uncle David.

 

Maybe that’s why I don’t understand why anyone―my family for example, would standing in the middle of the rain, wearing all black, crying for this man that they claimed IS Uncle David.

 

How could they?

 

This man doesn’t even have a single trace of similarity to the one I knew and loved. He was none like him. Yet it is him, or what used to be him. That face that used to smile at me, those hands that used to reach and hug me… they is no more. No more than a bag of skin and bones. Just a once filled, but now empty vessel.

 

That was when I truly realized what death means. It means the end of a story. The end of life and the end of you and everything that you used to or will ever be.

 

So it’s actually no surprise I didn’t recognize this man as Uncle David. It wasn’t him. Uncle David is gone with death wiping every traces of him.

 

Evil, demanding, irresistible― death pangs its claw of sorrow and agony at me and this time, I’m aware of it―it’s sickening.

And when I thought about it, I really wished death would just disappear. Perish forever.