Roses and Lilies

It was slightly peculiar on that one sullen evening seeing people gathered together in a feeble trance. A bland taste surrounding the atmosphere; I decided that it was best if I just settled into my seat without causing a commotion. It really is a beautiful day, I thought to myself just as the chatter quickly dismissed itself and the people scurried to their own seats. It was at that point that I was clearly able to see the attendees of this event; there seemed to be around 70 to 80 people, clad in black. There is Aunt Harriet, and my cousin Joe, and there is–the man seemed familiar, however, at that very point he must’ve been a relative unknown. 

There was something about that man that stood out to me–perhaps it was the fact that the only emotion that one could draw from his face seemed to be perspiration.  He seems nervous, or rather, anxious. He suddenly, yet softly, stood up–I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful roses in his hand, lilies would have been a better choice for the occasion–he walked over to the podium, put the flowers on the casket, and tapped the microphone.

“Ahem. Um-uh can we, um, get settled in please.” Magically, the sweat on his face had doubled, “We are here today to commemorate the life of someone we all loved. She was of a pure, benevolent soul, and it is our responsibility to reciprocate the love that she had so willingly shared with us. Let us take a moment of silence to remember Margaret Hathaway”.

That is my name. It was like a freight train collision that had thrusted me into the heavy abyss of my mind. It pushed me back, far back into a horrific, blood-curdling night. It was foggy around the edges, but I was there, in that very moment. In the face of such devastation, there was absolutely nothing I could do–on the ground, unable to move, but in agonizing pain. I saw the vibrant red puddle beside me, under me. I look different to myself, older, much older. All that was in my view was the rustic, antique table that my son had gifted me for my last birthday–and on top, roses. 

“Thank you for the respects that you have paid. Hmmm. Let’s, uh, move on with the rest of the ceremony.” The speaker got pulled off the podium by a sharp man in a slim-cut blue suit that was definitely not there to give his condolences, but he quickly got shooed away after handing over a lump sum of money. He came back on stage with a single tear in his eyes, but with a face as straight as a board. 

“Even though she wasn’t always there, physically, or even emotionally, you could tell that she cared. She never let me go through any hardship alone. Any obstacle I faced, we faced, together. With her, I could get past anything: a breakup, an illness, even a death. I think the worst part was that I was never able to tell her how wonderful she was, and because of that, she was always disappointed in herself.” He paused– “Mom?” His eyes gazed in my direction and pierced my forehead. 

My son. My little baby boy, Jacob. He’s all grown up now. I looked at myself and my luscious, tight skin began to warp. The heavy pearls on my neck, and the diamond earrings I wore felt burdensome on my now frail body. My blue silk dress was no longer perfect on me. My fingers trembled, my body was heavy, and I realized, too late, that I was falling.

I was back in that horrid place, but it felt like less of a fantasy and more of a memory. I was finally able to look to the right. And there he was, my cherished baby boy, once again, all grown up. His eyes were flooded with tears; he couldn’t bear to look at me. Perhaps what was most shocking was the Glock 19 Pistol that had been gifted to my husband in Jacob’s quivering hands, pointed directly at my chest. 

“I’m sorry mom. I’m so, so, so sorry.” The sharp man came over to the podium with dead eyes. He gave a quick hug, and tried to escort Jacob off stage.  

“NO!” He took a second to cool down, “I’m fine.”

Nobody noticed me fall; not a single head turned my way. I got up, cleaned myself off, and walked up to the casket. There I was laying as still as a rock, but I could hardly tell that it was me. My face was covered in what seemed to be three layers of foundation, concealer, and blush. They took off my glasses and put me in a black, cotton wrap–which was definitely not what I was used to wearing.

“It’s gonna be hard. Living, sleeping, and breathing, knowing that she isn’t here to support me. I think that she would have wanted me to move on. I can get over this. Yes, I know I can.” Jacob’s tone switched over to that of contempt, or even fright. It would have been challenging seeing him deal with such a hardship, but it was even more challenging seeing him trying to suppress it.

 “I don’t need anyone’s help! I don’t need your useless comfort and therapy! I’ll be fine all on my own!” He was then forcibly escorted off the podium by the man in blue and taken to the back.

I heard remarks such as: “he has lost it”, “he’s gone crazy”, and even “poor boy.”

Just as the ruckus was settling down, a shrill noise pierced the air. At first, it was unbearable, but it started to clear up–a siren. A serious man covered in heavy gear stepped out of the car and walked to the back. We could not see the man, however, we could definitely hear him.

“Jacob Hathaway, you are under arrest for the murder of Margaret Hathaway.”

There I was, again–this time, I knew for sure that it was a memory–looking straight through the barrel of the gun that my own son was pointing at me. Once again, I was able to turn my head to have a more clear view of scene. Everything seemed to click at the same time as everything fell apart. Next to my son, I saw a chiselled man in a smooth, black suit. He was also holding a gun, but his was pointed directly at Jacob’s temple. He seemed quite confident in himself.

“Shoot her, and you can reap the benefits. If you don’t, you die. This is the biggest dilemma you will face–choose wisely.” I felt myself dying, but I left with the screeching sound of breaking glass. The vase of the roses had shattered.