Life's not easy. If it were then, let's face it, it'd be boring. However there is a point that one gets to where there's so much going on, that they become essentially bored. And that's exactly what happened to my family.
When I was 7, I came home from school to find the door unlocked and slightly open. My mother was lying on the ground before the stairs, with dark red spots splattered in a random arrangement on her sheer white shirt, and a large, even darker red spot where her heart should've been. There was no gun, no bloodied footprints, nothing.
It was a sight that no 7 year old should witness. I cried and screamed at the top of my lungs, making my neighbors aware that something had happened. Mrs. Lafayette, an older neighbor, came to the door and immediately called the police, and my father.
My dad came home as soon as Mrs. Lafayette called him, with my 10 year old brother in the backseat. Policemen escorted me into the street, and I watched them take away my dead mother with a blank face, but eyes overflowing with unrecognizable emotion.
The next six months were lived in fear, anxiety, and anticipation. Cops and detectives were in and out, constantly asking me questions as I was the one that found her dead. Some said it was a suicide and others said it was a murder. Because of those speculations my dad put up security cameras and a lock system, making sure that if she was murdered, the one who killed her wouldn't come back for round 2.
However that was only six short months. It drove my father insane- the investigations, the aftermath of losing the one whom he loved, and the fear that it would happen to either me or James. So his solution was to move, nearly across the country to California, where his mother lived.
I didn't really understand what was happening. Sure, my mother was gone, but I couldn't help but wonder when she was coming back. But back then, I didn't understand that she never would.
