My mom looks at me, tears in her eyes.
I see her for the first time in years and my eyes light up with confusion and joy.

I wish she looked as happy as I did.

The gun she pulled from her purse was 9mm, I recognized it from the crime scene. I want to sheild my eyes, but I can’t look away.

She presses the gun to her head.
A whimper.
A clap.

The spray of blood is never-ending. She stands there, gun still at her head, a huge hole straight through, blood shooting out like it would from a water gun.

I cry Why. I scream in terror as the blood stops flowing and the puddle on the ground starts to turn into a flower.

The shape of a flower.

I close my eyes and I feel something moving and I feel a wetness on my skin and when I open my eyes, I see the blood and it’s moving and it’s forming words and my mom is lying on the floor, dead.

I look at my mom, her eyes closed, her arm lying outstretched on the floor.
Her arm is reaching out, is pointing to the puddle.

I look at the puddle, and see two words.

Your Fault

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