A/N: So, yalls I'm writing another story that I thought of today and I've got a lot of ideas for it but no prewritten chapters, so please be kind with wanting updates and also, please check out my other story, The Purple Eyed Assassins, which is mostly prewritten, so please read it as well as this.
Death is like the perfect ending. You don't have to suffer through pain, hunger, thirst, or want for anything. It's the perfect ending for the one who's dead, the one who has no heart beat. But, for those who have to live through the death, the ones who have to hear a heart stop beating, a mind stop working, to feel someone stop loving, stop living, to hear the last breath that echoes through someone's lungs, it replays over and over in not only someone's mind, but also someone's heart. You can never know their last thoughts, their last desires. Death breaks down the ones who have to see it, who have to feel the pain left over. It's almost as if the pain from the one who dies is transferred to the ones who loved them. Everyone has pain built up. Pain travels through everywhere, and breaks every boundary. Pain is the only thing that can break through the walls of death, not love. Love ends with death.
I remembered the day when I found out my mother died. It was a Friday, my mother went on one of her monthly business trips to New York City. She was the CEO of Starz Couture, the company that makes clothing for those who walk on the red carpet, and she was able to live just outside of New York. The company was controversial, and people wanted my mom dead. I knew about the threats, but I stopped paying attention after my mom received about ten in a month on average. I never really thought that someone would ever go through with a threat. Alas, they did.
My mother was walking to a meeting when she passed a homeless man, sitting on the streets, she gave him some money, about one hundred dollars, when he pulled out a gun on her. He mugged her, but when she fought back, bullets were fired, and one hit her, right in the brain, and it killed her instantly.
Now, I stand here, in a cemetery, the summer day bright and sunny, not a single cloud in the sky. They lower her oak casket down into the hole, and they talk and talk and talk, but everything blurs together in my ears. I am crushed inside, everything in my soul breaking down, yet not a single tear runs down my cheeks. My lips form a thin line as I stand by the tombstone, wearing a simple black dress, my hair in a braid. I always hated braids, but my mother loved them on me. She said I looked very regal when I wore my hair in a braid. I stand there, my feet bare, my toes curled on the soft earth, the grass tickling my feet.
Everyone throws a handful of dirt over the casket, and I am the last one to step forward, and take a handful of the soil, and flip it over twice in my hand, letting some of it slip through my fingers. I let the soil fall through my fingers and onto her grave. The funeral ends, and everyone leaves except me and my father. My father goes up to the grave, and silently prays a prayer. After he walks me to the car, and drives home silently, no tears on his cheeks, his expression hard but dead. When we get home we walk through the door, the house silent, when he turns to me. His hair is a sandy blond, his eyes a chocolate colored brown, yet they flame with the intensity of the sun.
He slaps me across the face, and I fall back, hitting the ground. I cry out in pain, the impact of his hand and the nerves pulsing will definitely leave a bruise.
"You can't even grieve like a proper daughter!" he hisses. "Do you know how embarresed I was, how ashamed, because while everyone else is crying, tears streaked down the guest's faces, you stand there like a creepy mannequin? You didn't show any expression, and care about your mother. She died, damn it! Act like a normal human for once!" he screeches. His hand hits my face again, and I whimper in pain, refusing myself to let him see me cry, but the tears well up, a frog appears in my throat. He storms off, leaving me backed against the white entryway in the completely white house. I sit there for a minute before Martha, one of our maids comes rushing over to me.
"Oh Ebony," she whispers, touching my face. I choke back more tears, not from the pain, but because of my name. I was named because of the color of my hair, a dark black, just like the wood. When I was born, I already had the ebony colored hair covering my head, and my mother thought it would be a beautiful name. Martha wipes a tear from my cheek, and walks me to the kitchen through the servant's stairs. She sits me down on the marble counter and grabs me some antiseptic, placing it on the white gauze and pressing it to my cheek. I hiss from the pain, and Martha bandages up the side of my face.
After, I walk up to my room, which is colorful compared to the rest of the house. The walls are painted a lavender, but windows cover one wall. I have a desk in one corner, and a bed in the other. Everything is simple compared to the salary my mother receives. I mean, received. I flop on my bed and grab a picture of my mother, father and I, standing on a beach. I was seven in the picture, hair in two ponytails, my grin from ear to ear. My mother always made time for family, but my father was different. We were always put second in his eyes, and money was always more important. In the picture my parents are hugging me, and I look like a mini-mirror image of my mother. We both have black hair and striking green eyes. We have the same colored complexion and the same pink on our lips. Before she died, we were only an inch apart in height. I grip the picture to my chest, and let the tears pour out of my face.
Inside my heart, I know that what happened with my father and I today will happen again. Whenever my mother was gone, he was violent. My mother was the glue that held this family together, and now that she is gone, I know that my father and I are going to fall apart as a family.
I sit there on my bed, crying silently, when I hear a knock on my door.
"Come in," I whisper, my voice thick with tears.
My door swings open, and in steps Greyson, a sad smile is worn on his lips. Greyson has striking blue eyes and sandy blond hair. His skin is light, and he holds one arm with the other, asking about my mental stability with his eyes.
I shake my head and he comes over to me, hugging me as I cry into his shoulder. He rubs my back and I sob and sob and sob. Greyson holds me close, and we lay down on the bed as I cry into his black shirt. He wears a pair of blue jeans and a black shirt.
"Hey," he whispers, "I'm so sorry that I couldn't go to the funeral."
"It's okay, Grey," I whisper to him.
With the pad of his thumb he wipes the tears from my cheeks.
"Hey, Ebb, are you okay?"
I chuckle at his nickname at me but I hug him tightly.
"Is this," he pauses to touch the bandage on my face, "from him?"
I nod my head, and he holds me closer.
He flicks on the TV and a rom-com starts playing.
He wraps his arms around my stomach and asks, "Do you want me to get food for us?"
"Yeah, can you get some chips, soda, popcorn, corn dogs, and, ooh, how bout chocolate cupcakes with strawberry cream cheese frosting?"
"I'll order it right away, m'lady," he says, getting up from the bed, and walking down to the kitchen. I sit there, staring at the wall, my soul feeling empty inside. I feel like I'm drowning. Like when you have to swim a five hundred, and you're attempting to sprint the whole thing like a fifty. It feels like instead of inhaling air, you inhale water upon water, slowly suffocating, and you just want stop swimming, but you can't, you have to keep swimming. I guess not everyone is a swimmer, but I am. My mom put me in swim team when I was six. I took to it like a cat, yet slowly, but steadily, I improved. Now, I'm not sure I'll ever want to swim again. I kick off the uncomfortable black heels that I wore for the funeral, and they clatter to the ground on the pink shag rug that is laid out on the ground, and one of the heels breaks off, falling a few feet away.
I sit there, a blank expression linger on my face until the door swings open and up comes Grey with the food.
Placing the food on the bed, I take some popcorn in my hands, as he gives me a blank stare. Right now I want him to hold me tight, let me listen to his heartbeat flutter under his chest. I want him to calm the storm that rages inside me, like a fire that just keeps burning.
He walks over to me, and whispers, "Ebb, it will be okay."
I stare at his azure orbs, my own grassy green ones daring him to hold me close. To kiss me. To love me.
I've often fantasized about his strong hands gripping my face and pulling me in for a kiss. I've wondered what his lips would taste like, what they would feel like. He places the food on the floor and hugs me. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat rocks me to sleep.
I wake up sometime early in the morning from movement. Greyson is just getting out of my bed, running his fingers through his hair.
"God, Ebony, I wish on every star that you will one day love me as much as I love you," he whispers to himself, shutting the door as he leaves.
When I wake up at seven, I can't tell if the words he said were just a dream or if it was reality, but I still smile into my pillow until I hear his thudding footsteps and the roll of suitcase wheels.