106. In which the voice of the purest innocent calls out, and drowns the misery.

The agony of writhing through water with a burning ache for breath gathered in my throat. Suddenly, the serenity of watching the little rippleas and bubbles turn into the most gripping nightmare. I'm thrashing around, clothes soaked through, unable to see what was happening. Dozens of fishes nip at my heels, one was a tickle, a hundred unbearable.

The weeds tangle up on my ankles, their sippery fingers holding me from catching my breath. Was that the last breath? I finally let my mind wander to thoughts that I woud never even dare touch to begin with. My arms are limp, the water carrying me, my body floating on the surface, my face in the endless blue.

An anguish bubbled, muffled cry was heard. So inhuman, unlike anything I've ever heard before. It was so full of remorse and regret, an overwhelming grief, a soul so full of impurities and heartburns. There was a dull ache in my throat, and it took me a while to realize that it was only my own.

Was this the death that I had longed for?

I used to imagine my ashes being scattering across the vast ocean, and tears upon my undoing. The man of my dreams, no matter how strong or beautiful would be weeping, tears running down his cheeks like rivulets of the rain. His old and whithered hands would be holding onto the memorial vase, his silver hair glinting in the sun. The dark heads of my children will be there to see the last of me rise to kiss the salty air, to touch the golden rays of the sun, then fall back into the ocean and live through Mother Nature. Then they too will weep with their wife and children, regret for not doing the best to protect me from whatever it is that has caused my death.

But the little ones will play around the grassy field, and take in the beautiful scenery and the fresh scent of the sea. They have no remorse yet, no need to feel anything but their inner childish immaturity. They do not need to learn about death and all life's unexplainable facts. They are too pure and innocent to waste their childhood on nonsensical things that might not even exist.

I will live on in the sea, in the wind, in the sun, in the sand, in the rain and the night. I will be behind every laughter that seemed to have no sources, every happiness that bursts from within anyone, every beautiful memory that one wants to remember. I will be the meaning, the truest, purest meaning of perfect happiness.

But none of the things in my mind prepared me for a suffocating, long, uneasy death that awaits me.

Soon, the force in my mouth couldn't spit out all the water, and the waves let themselves stream down my throat. More of it rammed my half dead body into sharp edged rocks. The blue green colour was tainted and ruined by the red of my blood, a dark murky sludge of what looked like cold coffee.

My body went limp, my eyes too tired to feel the sting of the sea water. All my blood had almost left me, and my mind wandered around to places I've never bothered to think about.

Memories.

In one, I was 8 again and mum looked 20 feet tall. She was a strong woman who never faltered in her step, only to fall for my father. She smacked my hands and told me never to play in mud because it wasn't for a girl. The moment I felt rebelious, I jumped right into the puddle and caused a fuss. I destroyed her pretty yellow flowers printed sundress and she never wore it again.

When I was 15 , and my hair was longer than my waist and I dressed like a lady waiting to be taken. It was then that mum decided I should be sent to military school. I begged, and my begs turned to yells, the yells turned to screams, and the screams turned to shouts of anger and fury. That was the first time I told my mum I hated her and meant it, and the red mark of my hand on her cheek scarred me forever.

I towered over mum at my wedding day, the folds of my white gown beneath me. We didnt say much before the ceremony. Mum was old and aging elegantly. Her neck was still poised, her hair and make up in perfect condition. In my hands were those of whom I was to marry. I looked into his black coal eyes, and said I do. My mum cried the loudest, and gave to me the happiest day of my life.

At 30, I had a newborn kid. Oh, how his eyes seemed to sparkle whenever his grandmother came close. I loved the way she handled him. She was as gentle and loving as a mother would to her son. But I was working all the time and never had any left to spare for my bundle of joy. I started to feel an aching jealousy toward my mother.

It was 5 years later, the worst of my life. i got fired from the best job I've ever gotten, I caught my husband with another woman, and my son was delibrately going against everything I told him. He reminded myself of when I was younger. Mother was firm and he looked up to her with such respect I would never get for my own. At the time, I looked ages older than she did.

I was 42 when I had enough of her pampering. My husband left and she offered to take care of us. "Mum," I said drearily. "Go home and do your things. Stop being around my family." I sighed. I told her this was my family and that she had her own at home. "I'm only here to help, because you, my dear, are family. " she said, taking my hands in hers. I struggled not to slap her in the face. "Go home mum. This is my family, not yours." I could hear her dreadful sobs even after she left.

50. My 20 year old son wept his heart out at the funeral. She had died of a heart attack and at the time, had been in a coma. As the miracle my mother was, she had woken up buut there was nothing we could do to save her. The doctors told her to rest all she could and be prepared for the inevitable. He cried so much his eyes were swollen and puffy. With all the dignity left in his body, he said he loved her and would do anything for her to come back and sobbed till all the men had begun to weep. Yet, I didn't cry or say anything at all.

Death has robbed me of the millions of ways I could have loved my mother, and I will never ever forget the way I hurted her beyond words and still have her love me back as though nothing bad had happened at all.

My prolonged death would be the curse for killing my own mother.

Nicole (: