AN: Well this is defiantly one of my more personal pieces and I hope you understand it. This was more for my benefit then the readers. Oh, yes just in case you don't get the hint at first, my mother is a physical form.

Sitting in this room, with the tranquility of silence hanging in the air, makes one feel at peace with the world. Lavender walls are barren, save a few pointless paintings, only there for the sake of some d├ęcor. There are no personal memoirs here, just the presence of something that seemed to have been long forgotten. The bed upon which I sit bears a brilliant cobalt blue setting with lavender flowers spread evenly on the comforter. My hand slides across the smooth surface of the matching pillow. The cool exterior of the cloth is wonderfully soft beneath my fingers. I decide to remove my shoes and cap so that I may lie down. As soon as my body is fully settled, any tension in my back is released. I am in a total state of relaxation. The bed is so soft and firm, unlike my own which has begun to dip because of the many nights of tossing and turning. I start to drift off into the dream world, struggling to keep my eyes open. As I keep dozing, the miscellaneous thoughts that come to you when you are in the state of half- conscious started to pop up in my head. I tried to mentally brush them away, the urge to sleep too strong. But then one question stood out boldly in the midst of my mind. The room that had me in a trance, did it hold the same effect for the previous owner? My eyes flew open at this, and I sat up. I pondered this musing, and I contemplated on it for sometime. I shook my head, half-smiling. No, the previous owner could not have ever felt this essence in the serene and soothing room. My mother could never have felt that.
But now more thoughts escaped my sub-conscious, as if this one had started a revelation inside my very mind. Did my mother feel so soothed by the touch of her pillow? Did she kneel before her bed every night and pray to God that everything would be okay? Was her wall a different color? Did posters of her favorite bands adorn the walls, covering every inch of them? Did the calmness of her own room comfort her when she lay on the bed, crying desperately? Did she ever model in front of her mirror, trying to decide what hairstyle to try that day? Did she pour all of her emotions onto paper, to release herself of all binds within her? Was she like me?

Was she like me?

This thought startles me to the point where my heart almost stopped. Then, I almost chuckled, the question seemed that absurd. My chuckling died down, and my face took on a somber expression. I knew before I entered my mother's old room that I did not know much about her, even though she and I sleep under the same roof. But I did not ever expect to feel this aching feeling for knowledge, not in my mind, but my heart.

Who IS my mother?

My mother, my mother. What young woman doesn't know about her mother? Isn't there supposed to be a special bond between two women who are a part of each other more so then anyone else in the world can be? Why don't I know anything about her past? Her childhood, her teenager years, anything? I have nothing to go upon, nothing to look at when I am in my own troubles. I have nothing



I wish I could say I knew her, I honestly do. But I am kept from the truth, receiving snide comments and a turned back instead. She doesn't want to tell me. She doesn't think its necessary and that I can do without the knowledge that is being held from me.

I stare in the mirror, looking at the reflection. I see resemblance of my mother, the eye shape, the roundness of my face. But that's all I have. Only physical characteristics and DNA prove that we are related. Nothing else.

The aching it my heart as not gone away, but instead grown, with each obscene words that spills from our mouths. Our only goal is to lash out as quickly and as painfully as possible, just to hurt the other no matter what the cost. Words can be more brutal then physical assaults, for you are attacking the heart, which is more precious then your body.

As I stare back at the glazed mirror in my mother's room. I try to see anything that might give me the information that I so badly desire. Nothing but my own reflection is before me, and I realize then, I am not my mother's daughter.

Not now.

Not ever.