I could tell by the way my mother slouched ever so slightly that she came bearing bad news. Her eyes had lost their slight shimmer, and her lips were glued in a perpetual frown. I dare not ask what was wrong, because I knew it would come when she was ready. I wouldn't push her.
"It's Colin," she began. My interest way immediately sparked; I hadn't heard anything of what had happened to him since the day after the ball.
"What's the news?"
"He's dead."
I heard her words, but I wasn't listening. It was like I had been hit with a metal bar; I could barely absorb her words. There was no way they could be true. My body rejected the truth like a child denouncing green, leafy vegetables.
The room was silent, an eerie understanding enveloping the room, resting on each tablecloth and chair. For a few moments, we both sat there, careful not to breathe too loud or move too suddenly.
I finally asked the question I had been dreading hearing the answer to.
"How do they know?"
My mother awakened from her trance.
"Someone found his body yesterday, in the Hudson River."
I attempted to process this information.
"Who would do this to him?" My voice was prickly, the tears stinging my eyes.
She shook her head and I spotted a trace of humanity in her eyes for the first time in years. Disproving my theories about her being subject to Emotional Deprivation Disorder, a tear fell from her eyes. Her hands quickly wiped away the expression of emotion and she turned her attention to a cup of coffee on the table.
"Authorities are saying it could have been an animal; he has visible puncture wounds all over his body."
I gulped thinking about the pain he must have been in when he died.
"This doesn't make sense."
My nose burned from withheld tears, and my eyes were surely lined with pink. My cheeks flushed when I realized that my mother's self-composure was much better than mine. However, I shortly realized that it was all right to cry, and became angry with my mother for not being more upset by the news.
"He's in a better place now," I reassured myself, but said it aloud in case my mother needed assurance, too. "And it is alright to cry."
It's better to feel pain than nothing at all.
"It's Colin," she began. My interest way immediately sparked; I hadn't heard anything of what had happened to him since the day after the ball.
"What's the news?"
"He's dead."
I heard her words, but I wasn't listening. It was like I had been hit with a metal bar; I could barely absorb her words. There was no way they could be true. My body rejected the truth like a child denouncing green, leafy vegetables.
The room was silent, an eerie understanding enveloping the room, resting on each tablecloth and chair. For a few moments, we both sat there, careful not to breathe too loud or move too suddenly.
I finally asked the question I had been dreading hearing the answer to.
"How do they know?"
My mother awakened from her trance.
"Someone found his body yesterday, in the Hudson River."
I attempted to process this information.
"Who would do this to him?" My voice was prickly, the tears stinging my eyes.
She shook her head and I spotted a trace of humanity in her eyes for the first time in years. Disproving my theories about her being subject to Emotional Deprivation Disorder, a tear fell from her eyes. Her hands quickly wiped away the expression of emotion and she turned her attention to a cup of coffee on the table.
"Authorities are saying it could have been an animal; he has visible puncture wounds all over his body."
I gulped thinking about the pain he must have been in when he died.
"This doesn't make sense."
My nose burned from withheld tears, and my eyes were surely lined with pink. My cheeks flushed when I realized that my mother's self-composure was much better than mine. However, I shortly realized that it was all right to cry, and became angry with my mother for not being more upset by the news.
"He's in a better place now," I reassured myself, but said it aloud in case my mother needed assurance, too. "And it is alright to cry."
It's better to feel pain than nothing at all.
