Once Upon a Time 1. Chapter 1

It's the same as always, I'm standing outside the classroom window looking in. My mom is in her room hanging up students art work while they are at lunch. She was always so happy while she did this. Often humming some 80's song. The mood of the dream changes instantly when a gun goes off somewhere down the hall. She becomes a statue pausing for several seconds before realizing what's going on. She sinks to the floor and crawls underneath her desk. She grabs her cellphone and sends me a text. I receive the message and look at my phone screen.

"Go find dad. There are books in his office that will show you where to go. The key is in my jewelry box. I love you Wendy."

The dream continues. I'm staring through the window as a man comes into the room. He's dressed all in black and has a gun in each hand. He points one at my mother, but before the gun goes off I wake up. I always wake up.

"MOM!", I wake up in my bed. My pillow is soaked with tears and my whole body is trembling. I don't even hear my grandma walk in and rest my head on her chest. I'm still crying and I can't stop.

Grandma strokes my hair. "Wendy. shush child it was only a dream. It's over now." I pull away from her and look at the tears swelling in her dark brown eyes.

"No.", I start saying between cries. "It happened...It's real"

Morning comes as Morning does. My mother used to always say that. Morning comes as Morning does. I told myself this over and over as I lie awake hoping that morning would just go away. Hoping that I would simply go away. Today is my mom's funeral. Three months ago she died in a school shooting, but it still felt like yesterday. The pain still hadn't died down. I finished the rest of school online and now it was summer. Mom's favorite season. Everything reminded me of her. Whether it be a pair of converse, she wore them constantly, anything related to Madonna, her idol, or just pink lemonade, her favorite drink. Worst of all were her paintings. It's funny how when someone dies their artwork becomes famous. Art galleries keep calling asking to buy one of the "died to young" artist's paintings. I always hang up. I've been living with my grandparents since she died. I know they find me a burden. Whenever we visited them for the holidays my grandmother use to tell me I was too much like my mother. You'd think things would have changed since her...passing, but they haven't. My grandma is always complaining about me sulking around and crying all the time. I just lost my mother for Pete's sake! To say the least we have a _very _rocky relationship. I would much rather be with my dad but the last time I saw him was I was eleven, which was almost five years ago. I miss him though and mom missed him to. I wonder what I'll say when he comes back...if he comes back. Despite him being gone all the time I know the he loved my mom. She loved him too. When he left he told me he had to fulfill a promise he had made, and that once he had done that he would come back and take us somewhere special. Sometimes I dream about that too. Him coming back on his black motorcycle, taking me away from this small town full of memories. We would travel the world together. Become the Father-Daughter duo. Sometimes dreams are impossible though, sometimes...

"WENDY!"

My grandma stormed into my room already dressed and ready to go. Had I really been stalling that long? She spread open my blinds and continued nagging.

"Wendy why on Earth aren't you dressed? We have to leave in fifteen minutes!" My grandma was way to...not sad to be going to her daughter's funeral. Her eyes weren't even red her makeup perfect. I haven't worn mascara since mom died. Her hair was in a sleek bun and she was wearing a black skirt set and white gloves. She looked like she was about to meet the president or something.

"Why? It's not like they're going to start Mom's funeral without us." Great, now she's ignoring me. I slide out of bed and trudge my way over to my closet. I know for a fact that Grandma had planned a service mom would've hated. She would have wanted something happy and bright. Held outside or in one of her favorite art galleries. Instead we were going to a stuffy funeral home. I mean who actually has funerals in a funeral home? And she would not have wanted anyone to wear black. She hated the color black.

I looked into my closet and pulled out the brightest ensemble I could. A coral, sleeveless, high-low hem dress, and a bright blue beanie. The beanie was perfect because I could just slide it over my unruly black-brown curls. As I looked over my outfit I realized one thing was missing, converse. If I had planned the funeral converse would have been required. I couldn't just wear any converse though. I needed her favorite pair...from her room.

I snuck down the hall to her bedroom, knowing grandma would make me change if she saw me. I stood outside the orange painted door and it hit me. I hadn't been in here since she died. Nobody has. Morning comes as Morning does. I needed those shoes. I needed part of her with me at that funeral. I opened the door and almost lost it. I could picture her sitting on her window seat, writing in her journal. Of course 80's music would be blasting from her I pod and she wouldn't here me come in. Her honey blond, perfect curls would be falling all around her face and I would wonder how she could even see. Finally she would look up with her opening brown eyes and smile at me. Then the image was gone and I was left staring at an empty seat, crying my eyes out and longing for her to come back. It was stupid to come in here. Why did I think I could do it?

Knowing that I would probably never come back in this room I grabbed one of her baskets and started throwing her things in it like crazy. Her artsy bohemian pillows, old worn out sketchpads, pictures of me, pictures of her, pictures of dad. I could barely see through the tears clouding my vision, but I couldn't stop. It was like a bomb of emotions had gone off inside of me. All the anger and sadness had clashed and it was moving me across the room. I grabbed her journal and all her old journals. I grabbed her Carried away Bath & Body works perfume and her bright eye shadow palette. I grabbed her African quilt and her old used up paint brush collection. I grabbed her jewelry box and last but not least I grabbed her old faded white converse. I set the basket down and hugged the familiar shoes. The shoes that were plastered in paint of every color. I slid them onto my feet and fell back onto the pink fuzzy carpet. I just lied there and cried. I cried and I screamed and after what seamed like forever my grandma starting yelling for me down the hall.

"Wendy! Wendy honey where are you? Wendy it's..." she paused when she realized the door was open and I think I actually heard her sigh. An actual sigh of emotion and then I started to hear muffled cries. I heard her footsteps on the oak wood floor as she cried more freely.

"Wendy darling." she started to say between the sobs. "Why now? Why today?" obviously referring to the fact that I hadn't even thought of stepping in this room for three months.

I calmed myself down to the point that my screaming cries were soft whimpers. "I...I needed her shoes." I picked myself off the floor and ran into my Grandma's open arms. "I need her."


	2. Chapter 2

Morning comes as morning does. Unfortunately morning sometimes slaps us in the face. I don't want to do this. I don't want to walk into an enclosed, boxed up room. I don't want to be bombarded by the hugs and the unnessacary questions of "are you okay?". Who would be? It's my mom's funeral for crying out loud.

I have been sitting in the backseat of my Grandma's car for a good ten minutes. My Grandma and Pa are already inside. After my major meltdown earlier they were being a lot easier on me. Said I could take my time, but how much more time could I really spend sitting here stalling. Eventually someone would come and drag me out of the blue station wagon that was keeping me safe. Safe from concerned family members who I've never really liked. My mom wasn't big on visiting family. She had an older brother and a younger sister who were the exact opposite of her.

My uncle, Mathew, was the golden child. He had gone on to become a lawyer at one of Boston's most prestigious law firms. Sure he had moved across country to pursue that career but he was still the successful one. I could count on my fingers the amount of times I had visited him. He was married to about the most stereotypical house wife you could imagine. Her name was Liz and she had perfect blonde hair, teeth as white as the teeth in Colgate commercials, a perfectly skinny body, and a family who resided in Beverly Hills. They had a son named Charles too. He was my age and I had met him when I was nine but I hardly remember. From what I've seen in Christmas cards he's the jock/class president type. Blonde and blue eyed.

Then there's my Aunt Stacey. Eyes as big as a Bush Baby's and hair like my mother's which she always had short. Stacey is like the Mother Teresa of this generation. She practically lives in third world countries doing everything from saving endangered species to feeding orphans. Needless to say she is a saint. We saw her every Christmas and Thanksgiving. Not married, no kids. Always talking about a new charity she's funding. She was really nice and sometimes that can be really annoying.

"Wendy?" My grandma was walking out of the building with Aunt Stacey in tow behind. I thanked Stacey in my head for wearing khakis with her black sweater. At least it wasn't all black. I rubbed my fingers across my converse and asked for a good luck from my mom. We weren't dead on Christians but we believed in Heaven and all that stuff. My mom had an old worn out bible that she read every night. I heard that some people lose their believes after losing someone but for me it's easier to believe that she's somewhere happy. Up in heaven with Van Gough, Picasso, and all those other dead artists. They're probably giving my mom expert advice right now.

"Wendy darling," Grandma had opened the car door now and was rubbing my arm, bringing me out of hopeful thoughts and into reality. Too bad reality sucked.

"Hey Stacey." I say as I slide myself down to the ground. Stacey's eyes were full of worry and it was obvious she'd been crying. I noticed her mouth quiver a bit as she looked me up and down. When her eyes wavered back to mine she started to say something…

"Hi Wendy, I…I uh…I like your shoes." Stacey said. I could tell she was trying to hold back tears and I couldn't help but wonder if everyone was going to break into tears at the sight of me. Poor girl without a mother and a missing father. Dad. I pushed the thought of him away as quickly as it had come.

I was tearing up now and I mumbled back to her, "Thanks, They." The tears came freely down my face now as my eyes found way to my feet. "They were moms"

Stacey made in for a hug, her tears now falling like a faucet's tap water. She squeezed me gently and whispered, "I'm so sorry. It's okay if you want to cry. I'll protect you from having to talk." She pulled away, her hands resting gently on my shoulders. Her big brown eyes were extremely comforting and I realized this was probably why she was so good with the little kids in Africa. She knew what to say and what to do to make you feel better. Make you feel safe.

I gave her the tiniest of head nods and she wrapped her arm around my shoulder. I looked at my Grandma then and saw that her eyebrows were ever so slightly arched in a way that made her looked worried, sad, and even regretful. I moved my eyes from her and set them on the doorway that was becoming dangerously close. Stacey paused for a moment before pushing the black double doors open. That's right black. I mean seriously, black?

The funeral home was in fact exactly as I had anticipated it. Several rows of brown benches leading up to a little stage with an altar and a cross behind it. To my right there was a large bulletin board with pictures, paintings, and items that all reminded me of mom. To my left were white fold up tables with an array of my mom's favorite food. It hurt to look at either side so I was forced to set my eyes on the endless rows of people. Actually there weren't that many people but there were definitely a lot of eyes and they were all looking at the people who had just walked in.

They all looked as if the spirit of my mom itself had walked into the room. Time felt like it had been suspended as I started to move forward. Well I wasn't exactly moving, it seemed as if Stacey was pushing me down the aisle way. I looked from face to face and they all looked familiar though I could only name about half. I noticed Bill and Gary, who were like my moms' agents, Omar, mom's gay best friend who helped her with a lot of artwork, The Princeton family, who had bought mom's artwork for forever, and so many other people. As I walked I realized one side seated friends and the other seated family. I saw tons of unfamiliar family members which I figured were cousins that I'd never met. Finally we were at the very front row; it was directly in front of the aisle way and only three people were sitting there. Uncle Matthew was on the right end and sitting next to him was Pa. On the other side I noticed my mom's best friend Rosie sitting there. Rosie and my mom had been best friends since 6th grade. Sadly enough she was more family to me then my Grandma. She has long black hair that's always in a braid and a tannish olive complexion. I haven't seen that familiar braid in two months.

I ran out of Stacey's gentle loving grasp and flung my arms around Rosie. She was crying and I instantly started crying right along with her. I sat myself on top of her lap and she hugged me tighter. I smelt her pine shampoo and heard her whisper something in my ear but I couldn't make it out. I suddenly felt a touch on my back and pulled myself out of the messy entanglement of my unruly curls and fallen tears.

'Wendy the service is ready to start." My grandma whispered to me. I moved my gaze to the people behind me and relized they were looking at me. My eyes moved across the crowd and I rested them on Omar. He flashed me an awfully fake grin but it was enough to give me the strength to let go of Rosie. I sat down next to her and laid my head on her shoulder. I saw my Grandma sit next to Pa and Stacey sit next to me. Rosie grabbed my hand and we wrapped our fingers together. I looked into her dark blue eyes and found a strange sense that I would be okay. Rosie was so close to my mom and being with her, feeling her breath and her warmth, it was the closest thing I could get to having my mom here. She was a part of my life before that awful day. She was a part of all the major events in my life. She knew me and she knew my mom, probably better than anyone here. I heard the preacher begin to talk and closed my eyes.


End file.

Once Upon a Time, Family, Tragedy