I do not know if it is selfish of me to be in so much pain over her loss because of what she was to me.
I did love her so dearly, for so many reasons.
She gave me good things to eat when I was small. She protected me from dogs that wanted to hurt me when I was too small to protect myself. She sang songs to me when it was thundering and lightening at night.
She would have died for me, and I couldn’t die for her.
I would have.
I asked God every day, when she was sick, to kill me instead of her. My prayers went unanswered.
First, He put her in so much pain, then, He killed her.
I can never forgive Him for taking her away from me. I’ve tried, but I don’t love Him anymore. Even though I know what happens to people who don’t love Him, where they go: I’ve seen it. And, now, He has already sent me there.
I wonder why I ever loved Him: He killed her.
She protected me from all kinds of things.
When I was six, I began to See things, feel things, the people wanted to talk to me. They would make me laugh, tell me things: sometimes, things that were important to them; sometimes things that I wanted to know. Sometimes they would make me feel how they had died-I wasn’t quite sure what that was, what that meant-but it almost always hurt, and it always scared me.
She comforted me. She told me to tell no one about them. Even if they wanted me to. She knew. She was the same. She Saw them, too. Always tell her anything the special people told me about Dad, or my little sister, Kayla.
She said they were special, the ones I wasn’t supposed to see or speak to. But it was hard to know who was who: sometimes they would talk to me in the daytime. It was hard to know who I could talk to or not. She told me to speak to no strangers, even if they were nice; but then, almost everyone was a stranger. It was confusing: sometimes Gran would come to talk to me-she wasn’t a stranger. I wanted to talk with Gran, she was my favorite. She told me not to be so sad that she had gone away.
She looked beautiful, so bright, so wonderful, not like she had looked in her casket.
They took me to the hospital. They needed to fix me.
They tied me to a cold table. There was a nice lady there who helped me to blow my nose: I was scared because they wouldn’t let Her come into the room.
The nice man in the long white coat asked me how many people were in the room. There were lots of them-but Mummy had shown me how to count as well as read.
“Eleven!!” I had taken an extra count to make sure that I didn’t make a mistake. I was proud of myself for having been so quick.
It was cold in that room. They put a big rubber thing in my mouth. They put this thing on my head.
And then, they burned me. It hurt so. The fire was behind my eyes. It was orange and white and black and yellow. I tried to scream, but the fire was pouring down my throat and I began to choke. The fire was everywhere-behind my eyes, in my fingers, my feet. I was suspended in it, drowning in it. Thousands of hot needles were being pulled through my body, my eyes, my mind. My heart was going to explode. The world disappeared and I was in a world of agony. Forever.
It stopped. I could breathe.
Then, the fire came back. And I was there again.
She took me from that place. I don’t remember going to the car, being buckled in. I just remember looking at the Lake as we drove home, the boats and the people floating by. I was thinking of the other lake, the one I had apparently just been in: The Lake of Fire. We were Baptists-we knew all about the Lake of Fire-even I knew about it, the place where the sinners go, the bad people, the people who God didn’t love anymore because they were bad, evil. I was almost sick with the shocking realization that I was maybe one of them. Rev-my Dad’s dad, my grandfather-spoke about that place almost every Sunday at church-he was the Minister: Soothsayers-people who talked to people who weren’t alive anymore-and murderers and liars and thieves and so many others were to be cast out, forever separated from Him, doomed to everlasting torment and suffering in The Lake of Fire.
I didn’t know how to stop Seeing the people that I saw; I desperately wanted to know how, how to become good, not to be wicked anymore. But I knew, I knew that since I had no idea why I was how I was there was no way to fix it. No way to be better.
I was trapped, doomed.
At first, I couldn’t speak. After a while, I began to cry. “I’m sorry, Mummy, please, please, never take me to that place again. I’ll be good. I’ll try…please…”
She cried, as well, “Don’t worry, Baby, I never will again. I promise.”
My relief was instant. “Mummy, are we bad? Why do we see people that other people don’t see? Are we bad, Mummy? Is that why?”
“No, Baby. You and I are just different. I know it’s hard, but just listen to Mommy-you have to try to keep quiet about what we see. They hurt me, too.”
She searched for words as she minded the road. “Sweetheart, sometimes people hurt other people when they’re different. It scares them,”-and before I could ask “why?”-“and “why?”, Honey, I don’t know. I really don’t. They don’t even really want to hurt them, they just don’t know any better. But, Honey-look at me-remember, sometimes it’s not good to be different, it can be dangerous. This is one of those situations.”
We arrived home. She carried me in. She fixed me a delicious plate of chicken, macaroni and cheese, and a piece of blueberry pie with a big glass of milk. I was safe. I was so happy. I loved her so much: she loved me, even if God didn’t.
She wiped away my milk-mustache and smiled at me. I’ll never forget how strange I thought it was to see such a smile. I had never seen one before. A sad smile.
“Remember, Baby, don’t tell a soul about what we See. Hide it. Try, okay, Sweetheart? For me?”
“Okay, Mummy. I’ll try. I love you, Mummy.”
She kissed me. “I love you, too, Sweetheart.”