a hundred ways | {marina mourns}

m a r i n a

clinging to me
like a last breath you would breathe
you were like home to me
I don't recognize the street

My daughter did not die peacefully— There is no truth more harsh, no pain more abrupt and soul crushing. She was struck down by the hands of a boy who seemed to take pleasure in the act. He was all blood spatter and a hateful, toothy grin. It was despicable, and I can still remember looking around at everyone else in the square in silence. My chest refused to move, my eyes clouded over and they all just stood there; didn't they understand that the world was ending?

Hell, maybe this was karma.

Instantly, sixteen years worth of missed opportunities clawed at my feet, like all cruel demons do once they are given the attention they have been lacking for such a long time.

I was no mother to Violetta.

Not in the ways I was supposed to be. Not in the ways I should have been. Certainly not in the ways she would have wanted. I treated her like I treated the rest of them— like I probably still will treat the rest of them: A military commander; a boss, not a leader. My word has always been law, though frequently broken by my children. I am such an idiot for never stopping to wonder if the reason they always act out is to garner my attention.

I would do it differently if I could. That is what I mean to say.

That prick Davenport had the audacity to say he knew what I was going through because his son went to peacekeeping school in another District, and I came so close to punching him in the face that my fist was already drawn back and waiting on my go-ahead before I stopped myself.

Would I have been this insensitive if it were someone else's daughter who had died? Would I have been so low, so full of narcissism and pride, that I dared equate the difficulties of my child gaining a further education to the excruciating pain of someone losing their kid? Could I really be that disgusting?

The answer was what kept me from swinging, as embarrassed as I am to say it.

So I watched them bury her six feet into the ground, even tossed a rose onto her casket as if it would make anything up to her. Val put his hand on my shoulder and, as always, my first instinct was to shrug it off. I hadn't cried yet. Not in front of him, at least, or anyone for that matter. I'm a soulless bitch, remember?

People like me are not permitted to feel out in the open.

But I didn't shrug off his hand his time. Ripred, if this was an uphill battle for me, Valentino was making the same journey but without shoes. His face looked tired, aged overnight. His eyes were swollen, his nose red, cheeks chapped. There was a time when I loved this man. And there was a time when we would have at least had each other to fall back on in a situation like this one.

But he hadn't cried in front of me, either.

I touched his hand with my own for a moment, before turning away, chin raised up so that I could peer at a sunless sky from beneath that haughty hat I was wearing. Some parts of wealth, I had decided, would never be a comfortable fit on me.

When I look at my reflection, I still half expect the poverish face of my teenage self to be staring back at me, sunken cheeks and all. Instead, I'm met with this: A woman of true power, a woman in control—

A woman who now has to realize how stupid she has ever been to think she was powerful or in control of anything.

I allowed myself one last glance, right over my shoulder, to the space where her headstone would be placed once it was finished being engraved. For a moment, I swore I saw her sitting there. She had that same silly haircut I had begged her to grow out when she was little, when she wore ovealls and liked hard candy. Even then, I knew she would be the smartest of them, those rosy cheeks lighting up when her hands closed around a book.

Damn, my life could have been spectacular, huh?

I closed my eyes, offering her the latest in what had been quite the series of silent apologies made in my head since her passing. I'm sorry I didn't let you go with your friends to that Abadeer party, I'm sorry I made you throw away those shoes even though they really were ugly, I'm sorry I didn't listen when you said your teacher wasn't helping you in school I'm sorry you had to learn how to shave by yourself I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—

There are a hundred ways that I could have loved her, each probably infinitely better than the ways that I did. And there are a hundred ways I could apologize for my mistakes, were she here to listen to them. But they all would have boiled down to the same statement in the end:

I'm sorry I didn't love you better.

I missed her hair, which was so odd to me. Of all the things, right? It started off as a thought that made me smile. Her hair had suited her, even if it was ridiculous. I remembered once, when she was eleven or twelve, and walked downstairs with a disproportionately large bow on top of her head, and I remembered thinking she reminded me of myself at that age, trying on my mother's clothes when she wasn't looking, thinking I would be the belle of the ball when I would probably look back on that day a couple years later and hate my parents for ever letting me wear something so ridiculous.

And that tiny thought just grew and grew and grew until now.

I stand in my bathroom, face only inches away from the mirror. I huff, breath from my nose fogging up the mirror slightly. In my right hand, a pair of scissors makes a clanging noise against the porcelain sink. I tap it once, twice, three times, and before I can stop myself, I raise them to the appropriate spot on my hair, and I cut. For a moment, I feel stupid. I haven't cut hair since I was a teenager. Then I feel guilty. I don't deserve to commemorate her like this. But by the time I am finished, I am smiling.

Not quite like hers, more choppy and uneven, and definitely not as dark. I look like a new person.

Now, let's see if I can act like one.

please don't close your eyes
don't know where to look without them
outside the cars speed by
I never heard them until now

song: I know you care