tentative // styles [au]

Prologue.

The grass felt cool under my touch. I curled my fingers into it; not in anger, but just to feel it and bring me peace.

Peace.

The word sounds foreign to me. I bend my head and inhale the scent of grass, mud, earth or whatever, just to find peace. But it seems impossible. Peace is something that does not, under any circumstance, exists for someone like me. The smell of earth fills my lungs. I take a deep breath, lift my head and gaze above. The sky is clear and immaculate. And it feels so big from here.

I close my eyes and try to listen to the birds twittering, and leaves rustling. It sounds as if the nature is trying to convey a message to me or trying desperately to make me believe that everything will be alright. But fails.

In my mind, I see myself as a little child, only eleven years old, sitting beside my mother who's teaching me to look for inner peace. I can, very clearly see my mother's dark brown hair swaying in the cool breeze. And I remember exactly how it felt to be held close to her on the grass where I was sprawled lazily beside her.

'Just close your eyes and let your mind relax. Listen to the nature around you,' my mother's soft voice fills my head.

Now, as I try to do the same thing, my mother's calm voice keeps ringing in my ears. Just the thought of her fills my heart with emotions that are impossible to fathom.

I open my eyes slowly, and look around. Gravestones lined the eerie graveyard; some new, while others old and impaired. The smell of old stone mixed with dry air is evident. It reminds me of my mother's voice when I talked to her last time - the last and final time when I heard her velvety-like voice. Her once buoyant voice sounded as f it had drained out.

'Please come back..,' she had spoken desperately. What hurts the most is my icy reply, 'No, you don't need me,' and then I hung up on her. I repeat: My last words to my dying mother were, ' I hate you' and I.Hung.Up.On.Her. The memory fills me with absolute hatred; for myself.

I was so obsessed with the idea of travelling and adventure. All I could think about was the itinerary that I had planned out for myself. I was so indifferent to my mother and her endless protestation against what I was doing.

Now, I stare at the new and still shining, smooth black marble with the letters, A.W , engraved in gold letters. Just looking at it made a lump rise in my throat. Tears threatened to fall from my eyes. My heart is beating so loud, i wonder if the birds could hear it.

How could death be so cruel and selfish? How could it take the certain person that we care about, from us, and then leave us with nothing but misery ? And how can it - wait. How can I call death words like cruel and selfish when I myself am to blame for all the mess. I have not even been close to good to my mother for the past three years. I was nothing but a worthless narcissist. I am many things, but 'caring' is certainly not one of them. For if I were that, I would've apologized and went back to her.

But no, I chose my selfishness over my own mother. And I have no right to reprimand death for choosing my mother now.

Death decided to take her away from me and leave me with nothing but guilt. And regret. I never believed in these two words. But now I realize how true they actually are. They make you numb at first, but then hurt you in every way possible. They surround you and you're trapped. There's no escape route - you're stuck; like literally stuck. There's no contentment. And especially no peace, it ceases to exist.

I didn't realize I was crying until I tasted salty moisture in my mouth. I cried. I sobbed. I wanted her back; right now. I wanted her to hold me in her warm embrace and assure me that everything will be fine. Even now, after death, when she's supposed to be resting in peace, she can't. Because I'm screaming and weeping, and making peace impossible for her.

How selfish can I possibly be?