Its only a five letter word. Two vowels, three consonants one syllable. What the exact definition? Is there an exact definition? If you were to flip open a dictionary and skim the pages for the word death, yo might find something like this
1. The act of dying:cessation of life.
2. The permanent ending of vital process in a cell or tissue.
3. The action of fact of dying or being killed.
And it goes on to explain how the word death could be used to personify the destroyer of life, ecterera. But thats so technical, so researched and fact based. What is death,really? Is it only the end of life?
Well,none of us would know. None of us have been dead before, and, although some of us can say we've skinned the border between life and death, none of us have truly been dead. What does it feel like?Is it peaceful, is it bliss?
Thought like these torment me day and night. Mostly questions, wondering about whats its like to cross to the other side. And for a long time, i wished i could never cross over, and leave this world behind. If there is a heaven and hell, heaven and death is most certainly life is hell.
That, i suppose, is the true reason why we've moved to castle hill, Washington from Sacramento, California. My morbid thoughts on taking my life pushover scared my pushover parents, so they packed their bags and decided we needed to move across two whole states to escape the demons that burned inside of me back in California.
As of they still don't burn within me in this small, cold town.
"Jane.Jane, are you listening?"
I look over at my mother who stands with her hands on her hips, her dark hair thrown into a messy up-do.
"Unpack these plates. They can go in the cupboard over there."
I reluctantly comply, sliding the box across the counter and pulling out stacks of white china.
"This house is weird" I remark crinkling my nose at the layer of dust coating the shelves inside the cabinet.
"Its not weird, its historic. It was built in 1923, you know."
I sigh, carefully arranging the plates.
Its not hard to believe this house is roughly ninety one years old. The exterior is made of grey stone, and im sure it was highly expensive in its day. Its mansion sized. which is way to large for three people but my father happens to be obsessed with two things antique-homes included. Even if said home it two miles from the rest of the town, and off a dirt road.
This house looks like the type that was passed down through a wealthy family, with its high ceilings and large front door. Two grand staircases connect the first floor to the second in a large foyer, and a large crystal chandelier that hangs above the front door.
My father, being such a history nut, was ecstatic when we found a house in all its retro beauty. No, we couldn't have gotten a house in one of the neighborhoods close to school, we needed a historic house.
My parent were what you call quirky. They are both teachers, my mother was an elementary school teacher and my father being a professor. They worry about vitality everything in my life, from whether my socks are warm enough to my close encounter with death.
I do not blame them. Suicide is not taken lightly. But they treat me like im a house of cards, a fragile shard of glass that is just waiting to break again. And i don't like being treated that way.
I break into a fit of coughs as i open another cupboard, dust flying out of it and into my lungs.
"God, why couldn't the last owners of this place have at least cleaned up a bit?" I stutter at my coughing ceases.
"No ones lived here for a few years, the house was on the market for a longtime" my mother says simply.
"I can tell" I mumble and she shoots me a look.
"Why don't you go unpack your room, i am sure theirs least dust in there."
"I don't even know if i remember the way to my room."
My mother shakes her head, a small smile on her face from my sarcasm. "Chin up, honey. Remember how you said you'd try to be more optimistic."
I sigh, shutting the dusty cupboard. "Yes" i grumble.
"Good, now, put on a smile and go unpack that lovely room of yours" she smiles widely an i put on a fake smile back for her.
I trudge up one pf the staircases, looking at the enormous chandelier hanging above the foyer. God, this place is old.
The top stairs creaks as i reach the landing of the second floor, my eyes moving past each of the bedrooms doors until it lands on the room i claimed as mine.
I push open the ornate wooden door and take in the room once again.
My white bed frame is already set up, with boxes filing just about every corner of the room. A large window looks out on the back of the property, extends where the huge backyard, the grass in the yard a vivid green.
An old mirror is propped up against the wall. We found it in this room when we moved in. Its nice i guess. My mother told me i could have it n here if i want, or else they put it in the guests room.
I walk over to a box labels clothes and decide that what i want to get unpacked first.
The closet is walk in, and big enough to accommodate my limited clothing style. Im a minimalist when it comes to most things fashion includes.
I sigh and open up the box, an avalanche of packing peanuts spilling from the cardboard. I grimace. I've always hated the good for nothing styrofome packing peanuts. However my parents love them.
I pull jeans and shirts from the box moving them to my closet.
I groan as i catch sight of the dusty shelves.
"Damn Dust" i mutter, swiping my hand across the surface and leaving a trail of clean space on the shelf eye level with me. The dust flied into the air in disgusting cloud, swirling through the air.
I placed some hangers on the built in racks, trying to ignore the abundance of dust. Im about to go downstairs and get s duster when my eye catches on something.
Its a small box, shoved in the corner of one of the shelves. I furrow my row, reaching out and grabbing it, more dust flying from the shelf. I cough and run my hand over the top of it. I run my fingers over the smooth outside, intrigued.
Maybe this belonged to the previous owners, and the forgot to take it with them when they moved?
I lift up the top of the box curiously.
The insole is black velvet, and its a small space. There is not a single speck of dust inside the box- but thats not the odd thing about it.
The only thing that sits inside the small box is a single Polaroid photograph.
It depicts a boy who looks a little bit older then me with dark hair and light eyes. A smirk is painted across his lips, his hands behind his back as he land against a wall. He wears a crisp white sweater and dark jeans, the half smile on his face is almost haunting.
I flip the photo over, searching for some sort of indication as to who it might belong to.
Nothing it written neatly penned except for two initials:
Turning it back to the front, i stare at the photograph for awhile, studying it.
And the only thing i can manage to think as i analyze this simple, random photograph is that this boy in the picture is one of one of the most intriguing and beautiful sights i have ever seen.