Dear diary, I write. Today I will leave my feelings of melancholy between your pretty pages. I

will no longer write in betwixt you and pour my feelings onto you. I have lived in melancholy for

years afraid of the light and of befriending someone, for fear of them escaping my life just like her.

Her. Diary, you should know who “her” is by now. I have only been writing about her for years now.

Dear diary, how much I wish you could respond? You would probably stop me from what it is I want to

do and will do today. If you could just talk to me or maybe grow hands and pull me back. Perhaps, my

mother would do the same but she wouldn't have to. Because, if she were here to stop me I wouldn't

need to be stopped. Well diary, that is it for now or for ever. I must say good bye now. Don't feel sad

Diary. I'll miss you too. I need you to promise me one thing Diary. I would hate to have anyone feel the

stinging pain I have felt from losing someone. So, if Madam Louise must know why I left promise me

you won't shy away from showing her everything I have written in your hard covered body. Surely, the

explanation for my disappearance is written inside of you. Good bye for ever Diary.



I close my diary and lock it with it's rusty key. I then dig a hole in the ground with my bare

hands and bury my diary in the ground like someone will soon do to me. Then, I run from the yard

-the grave of my diary- into the house and straight up the wooden stairs heading to my mother's

bedroom. “Ouch,” I should have known that the doors would be locked. I locked them in 2007, so that I

wouldn't have to face the pain and sorrow that fills the atmosphere of her room. I quickly unlock





Al-Ansari, Going To Be With My Mother, 2

the doors only to be overcome with grief. Pictures of her span across the walls. Her ivory,

comfortable, bed spread that we used to lie in and happily eat ice cream while watching lame TV

shows. I was inane back then. Did I not know how many calories where in a bucket of ice-cream or

shall I say the three extra buckets that I ate, along with the chocolate covered strawberries? Oh, the

things my mother could get me to do with her.



I walk over to her closet, pull onto the circular knobs, and they fall off. So I grab a

razor blade - that I use only for self harm - from my pocket and use it to pry open my

mother's closet. I grab one of her vintage, high-waisted skirts and lay it on her bed. Then, I slam the

closet doors shut. I grab my mother's wobbly, legged chair from her desk and set it in the middle of the

floor. I gently ease up onto it while holding her skirt in my hands. I tie the skirt onto one of the many

rails on the ceiling and knot it tight leaving one strand of fabric hanging loosely down. Then, I step off

of the chair and exit my mothers bedroom.



I tip-toe to the bathroom just across the hall and silently shut the door. I wouldn't want Madam

Louise to hear me at all. Her nagging would only drive me insane and ruin my chance of being happy

just this one day. I gently bend over the sink and wash off my face that has been used for years as an

art pad to express the melancholy I have been feeling. Only people saw it as meaning they needed

to stay away from me, for I was a sicko that needed to see a shrink ASAP. When I was done washing

my face off, I looked into the mirror and couldn't recognize myself. “Who is this girl?” I could see my

freckles. My green eyes shined on their own rather than being covered up with black eyeshadow. My

lips were so plump and naturally rose pink. I usually over saturated my lips with black lipstick, so

it was strange to see them pink. Next, was dying my hair, it had been dyed black and cut at different

angles for years. Every time I slit myself with my razor blade I would slit my hair as well. It often


Al-Ansari, Going To Be With My Mother, 3

looked like a peacock or like an old rag on top of my head. This time I want some thing different. I

want to have classy curls like my mother. The type that gracefully falls on its own and doesn't tangle

up. I want strawberry blonde hair like my mother as well.


So I did as I wanted as I always do. I died my hair. Then, I took a shower with my mother's

coconut and shea butter body wash and her shampoo. I scrubbed my feet and painted my nails pink. I

applied rose blush to my cheeks and sparkly lip gloss on my lips. This was quite amusing. I had never

felt like such a lady in my life. Perhaps Madam Louise would begin to call me senora instead of

creeper or Gothic girl.


My body was still scraggy, but I couldn't gain fat to cover my bones in just one day, so I

would have to meet my mother looking boney. Perhaps, she wouldn't notice for she would be

mesmerized by my beauty and how amazing I would look in her knee-length, lace dress and ballerina

flats. I soon exited from the bathroom still in silence, tip toeing down the hall hoping to not wake

Madam Louise even though I know that she has the hearing of an owl. I slip silently into my mother's

room, push the door close and turn the lock leaving the key outside the door. I step onto the chair

and grasp hold of the fabric while breathing heavily. I tell myself, “ Jude, you mustn't freak out on

yourself now.” “You have prepared for this moment and it's time.” “You will get to see your mother for

the first time in a long while.” I grasp hold of the fabric and tie it around my neck like my mother had

tied her scarf in the picture in front of me. Her's looked graceful as if she had practiced tying a scarf

around her neck for years. While mines looked clumsy and awkward. If only she could be here in this

moment to tie the fabric like she did her scarf. If she were here she wouldn't need to tie the fabric

around my neck because, I wouldn't need or want the fabric to be tied around my neck. My heart

begins to pound severely in my chest and I feel as if it would burst through my ribs. My palms begin to

sweat as I move close to the edge of the chair. I pick up my right foot and extend it over the chair and

let my left foot follow on its own.
Al-Ansari, Going To Be With My Mother, 4
…...................................



Forcefully I rise up from underneath the sheets and rub the sleep out of my eyes. I sigh, as I

look to my right and see my diary and pen resting on my nightstand.