Paper Bride ✔️ (Book 4 - DP Series - COMPLETE)

32. You Guys Are Dumb

"You have a hate list?" Hope asks, a teasing smile breaking out through her tear-streaked cheeks.

"Well," I say with a shrug, "he's the only one who's ever made it that low. As bad as it sounds, I would like to smother him with a pillow."

Hope cracks a smile and suddenly we're both chuckling. It's sad laughter, but it's laughter nonetheless, and I'm shocked that such an emotion can even find room to escape from the gloom that's crowding my soul.

The moment doesn't last long, but the smiles do remain. The room is silent, both of us in some sort of deep thought. My mind keeps dancing back to the moment when this happened. A sick part of me wishes I'd been there to see it. I want to know what exactly happened. For some reason, I'm almost fascinated by the details. I just need to know everything.

Dad mentioned that the funeral is going to be closed casket because the accident did cause some unsettling damage to my mother's body, and yet, I want to look. I want to see what my mother looks like without a soul. Will she still look like my mother? Would I even recognize her? Would it be horrifying, or would I just stand there looking at her as if looking at a mannequin?

My dad lost his mother several years back, and he told me about his experience. We'd all been at the emergency room when it happened. I actually remember watching the heart monitor as it bleeped with life. My eyes had been transfixed between her unconscious face and the line jumping with every beat of her heart. I was more curious than saddened. Maybe it's because I knew that living would mean suffering at that point, or maybe it's just because I'm a callous horrible person. Either way, I wasn't heartbroken when the monitor stopped jumping as it filled the room with a continual ring of death. She was gone.

My dad had told us what he'd experienced in that moment, and it's definitely not what I'd expected. He said that he remembered just standing there, staring at his mother, and only one thought was going through his head...

... that's not my mother.

He'd just stared at her lifeless body and he knew right then that that woman was not the lady that raised him and loved him. It was just a vessel. The spirit that made her his mother was now gone. Nothing of her remained apart from flesh and bone. He hadn't even cried in that moment. He'd just stared in awe as realization dawned on him. He said it was the most surreal experience of his life.

Now I'm in his shoes, but I'm nearly positive that my opinion would be different. I don't see this as a moment of awe or realization. I'm not basking in the weird reality that my mother no longer lives on earth. No, I'm groveling in it. I'm squirming in this painful sensation of loss.

While I might be slightly curious about her current state, I'm not curious enough to destroy my mind like that. Right now, I have good memories of my mother. I close my eyes and I see her smiling face, her goofy laugh, her addictive spunk. I refuse to taint those memories with a moment of stupidity-driven curiosity. I choose to remember my mother as living. I don't want images of her dead eyes gazing back at me. I don't want to see her body mangled and broken inside of a casket. I don't want to stare at her frozen chest as I beg her to take a breath.

I just don't want to hurt anymore.

I know for a fact that no matter how much my deranged curiosity eats at me, I will not give in. I will not insist on viewing my mother one last time. Because that one last time could destroy a lifetime of memories that we've shared. I'm not that self-destructive.

"How was your flight?" I suddenly ask, trying to get our minds off the misery we keep soaking in.

I don't want to be sad right now. I'm with my sister for once. I haven't seen her in nearly six months, and I'm dying to know about her life. I should be eagerly listening to the stories of her college experiences. I want to listen to her gush about a boy she's obsessed with. I want to listen to her complain about her excruciating Statistics class. I want to drown myself in her stories and just pretend that yesterday never happened.