“Mommy, what are you doing?” I walked into my parent’s room, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with my chubby five-year-old fingers. My Mommy was standing on a ladder with a rope around her neck in a pretty way.
”I’m playing a game.” She was shocked to see me up so early; her voice and wide eyes told me that.
”What type of game?”
”It’s a very short game, Princess.” Tears were streaming down her face, her beautiful chocolate brown eyes red-rimmed.
”Mommy, can I play?” I wanted to play; maybe I could make the game better. It seemed to be upsetting her. Or maybe it was because the pretty rope was wrapped around the unmoving fan so many times. Maybe I could untie it for her.
”No, Princess.”
”Awwww! Mommy! Please?” I sat down on the floor and crossed my arms stubbornly.
”Okay… You can play. Close your eyes while I make my move.”
”Okay!” Smiling I closed my eyes, and waited patiently while my mother made a few sounds. I wondered when I could open my eyes. “Mommy, when can I open my eyes?”
No answer.
”Can I open them now?”
No answer.
Opening my eyes anyways, I looked up at my Mommy; her eyes were white, her body swinging back and forth in front of me. I couldn’t scream; it just wouldn’t come. All I could do was sit there and look at her until my father came home from work and found us.

I remember once in kindergarten I was playing with these boys during inside recess and I was supposed to die. I was laying there with my eyes open and my body relaxed. They told me that when you die, your eyes close. I told them they were wrong, that they were only closed if you were sleeping when you died or if someone closed them. They just laughed at me, but I knew I was right. At a young age, I was an expert on death. I had seen it. I had seen what they did when they came and got you. I had seen what they did to identify the body. I had seen the cuts they make across your chest and down your stomach to take out your insides, it was a Y shape. I had seen the body spasm as it let go of a soul.  That was how I dealt with my mother’s death. I learned all about it. I learned what she had done was called ‘Suicide’ and someone commits it everyday. I learned that the pretty rope around her neck was called a noose. The only thing I don’t know about it is why she did it. I have theories, but the reason was taken to her grave.

The other way I dealt with my mother’s death was eating. Eating and eating until I was far beyond stuffed. Eating until I was sure I would get sick. That’s how I became overweight. The food became my only comfort when I had no one to turn to; it was something to do to keep my mind off everything wrong. It would be just me and the ice cream, or me and the pretzel sticks.

She taught me life is a game, and to escape the game, you kill yourself; she caused me to have to deal with death at a young age; she never gave me a chance to have a normal life; she left me all on my own to deal with all these new changes happening to me. That’s why I’ve come to hate her.
No, Mommy, play Candyland with me…