The Abortion

This is a flash "story" that I wrote using the prompt from Dylan Thomas: 'Do not go gentle into that good night...' This was one of my mother's favorite poems, so this prompt reminded me of her.

I always dreamed of her death being so sweet.

So gentile and complete and yet, she seems to have even failed at that. 

My mother chose a violent way of departing.

Instead of caressing gently down the stream of her life, her lazy hand waving in the waters of her memories, she chose an explosion of scent and pain and fear.

A swirling storm of every dispute she has caused and every mistake she has made. She chose to relive it through trying to forget it and subsequently slipped into the next room of existence. 

Her last mark in this world would be the blistering scar she burned into the lives she loved with a singular decision. Once the world ejected her from this plane, I felt the weight of my world lift from my shoulders. Finally, she could be somewhere she belonged which I have just accepted was not here with me. She ripped her way out of this whirlwind the way a tornado tears houses from their foundations, destroying families in their wake. So dramatic, but she’s always been one for drama. 

I miss her. The person that kept me grounded in this world has cut the umbilical cord and left me floating through the womb of life, lost and confused as she. I hope it was worth it. Abortions are a relief to some, I guess.

Author's Note

This is a blind writing that I have edited for the most obvious grammatical errors.