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Have Faith, Anastasia

A sentiment of a broken heart--Anastasia.

Often times, the thought of inexistence crosses my mind. It’s excruciating, the things I have to go through—indeed life was the bitch that has to be dealt. There were even those mournful nights when I wished upon that dead star—shining brightly in the blanket of darkness, that I was void of any emotions. That I was as hard as a hard as a rock; colder than the north pole. Nevertheless, reality has its ways of slapping that indisputable fact that wishes only come true in preposterous Cinderella movies, and sadly I was no Cinderella.

I lie awake in the cold cement against my back—feeling the ache of my invisible wounds. How did this happen to me? How did my life turn like this? Why did this have to happen?

I have always been a good person. I followed every rules—I followed every word my parents utter. I never disobeyed—I never freaking disobeyed!

I didn’t deserve this. I didn’t deserve to be thrown at my own house—to be thrown by my father’s new bride-to-be. Or so I thought.

Beatriz, I don’t know anything about her except for the fact that she was going to be soon a part of my family. I didn’t even know how and where she and my father met. I just woke up one day and found her in my fathers’ side their arms entwined, but one thing I didn’t fail to notice was that evil grin she wore upon meeting my gaze.

“Goodness gracious who is that Edward honey? Such a filth inside this..” she waved her hands dramatically at the place, deciphering the word at the tip of her tongue “this glorious mansion” she spat, I flinch at her words. Father turned to me with no recognition, like I was a stranger—like I was not her daughter at all. I wanted to cry right there and then, but I don’t want to be weak. I am a strong person after all so instead of lowering my gaze I tilt my chin up, showing grace and sophistication my mom taught me, during our etiquette lessons, contrasting my worn out pink dress.

“Who is she?” she asked my father, he looked at me for a second and then turned his gaze back at her not responding to her question, he motioned her at the west wing leaving me balling my fist trying to suppress my tears at the foot of the grand staircase.

He loves me right? My father, he loves me. I was his princess. I and mother were precious to him—we’re a happy family—just the three of us, nobody else.

But someone had to take my mother away. Cancer took her—she didn’t even tell us that she was suffering from a hypocrite disease. She just let it took her—like my father and I didn’t matter. It was painful seeing her dying—seeing her slipping away out of our life—out of this world. During those times, I wanted to shout. I wanted to scream at my mom for not trusting me—us for not letting us help her break away from the illness. But all I could do was cry—all I ever did was mourn and prayed to the heavens to help her. I prayed to God—No, I begged for him to heal my mother—to spare her from death hoping that he would answer my prayers because I am devoted to him—but he didn’t, because after two days my mother died—He took my mother away from me.

I was devastated, but my father was beyond broken to acknowledge even me. When mom died, he tried committing suicide —he tried ending his life and lucky enough I was there to stop him—but he got mad, no he was fuming mad that he wanted to kill me—his own daughter. I remembered him shouting with a clenched jaw that I was the hindrance—that I was the one hindering him from seeing my mother—his wife again and that I should be severely punished. Those times, I felt like the man in front of me wasn’t my father—not even close to being a father—he was like a devil, ready to kill me within a blink of an eye.

I remembered running and hiding for my life when I found him holding a knife, ready to take his aim at himself, but before he could, I stopped him. Doing so, he got mad and without any hint of emotion, he pointed the knife towards me. I remembered begging to him “Father, please don’t do this. Please.” I cried “Please, this is Anastasia. This is your daughter” however there was no recognition in his eyes as he ran to me, still aiming the treacherous knife at me—his daughter.

I scurried through every part of the house until I hide in the pavilion—my mothers’ pavilion.

I cried reminiscing the memory of us three joking around and running about the place—My father would run after me, and I would laugh like a kid as I ran for the sake of not getting tickled and my mother would tell us calmly to stop, but her face was looking brightly amused at the sight of us. Now, my father is running after me—not because he’s going to tickle me and say how beautiful his daughter is but because he’s going to kill me mercilessly with a butchers’ knife and my mother won’t be here to stop him—because now, she was the reason as to why he wanted to kill his own daughter.

And just by thinking of that a new batch of tears strikes stinging painfully out of my ever swollen eyes.

How many days had it all been? It could have been weeks, months or worst years!

Time.. I lost track of it.

Chances.. It all slipped away.

When all that’s left in you are the fragments of who used to be you. Flaccidly holding on to that dangling rope, tainted with obscenity. Physically ecstatic; spiritually confused; and emotionally fragmented—as you slowly break from the inside out. Anomie overwhelmed your system—that death would end all your struggles—that it would end the agonizing pain and stop the voice taunting you. So without hesitation, you held the filthy rope—the instrument to end every pain as you placed it in the wholeness of your neck, half aware of the shattering sound of the picture frame, a picture of you smiling with the people you love. But that was before the inexplicable pain consumed you. Decisively, you took away your life thinking no one would mourn of your demise.

 

I wish it were that easy to take away my life—to end my pain, but then again what difference am I to my father? As pleasing as that all sound I can’t do it—not when I know that it wouldn’t end a thing.

 

Yes, I’m quite sure that no one would mourn before me, but I know my mother—wherever she is now, would not be happy, at least, I am sane enough not to commit suicide. Right now, I was the only one who was strong enough to make things right—I would put things back where it belong.

A long time ago, that was what I thought.

Thinking I was some kind of a heroine who would, later on, save the day—that I could somehow put things back where it should be.

Heck! was I wrong about that!

When my father and Beatriz married, I didn’t have a say on anything—All the things I tried mending—the things I endured—vanished, broken, and trashed. I couldn’t do anything, I was as good as an amputated man—a handicapped person, except I didn’t have anything to aid me, I completely had nothing as I watch every bit of what I used to have vanish.

Like in a nightmare, I tried waking up.

Like a chained man, I tried breaking away.

But it was of no use.

The foundation of my principle flopped down like it was being raked by a tsunami—like it was shaken by a strong earthquake. Then, I woke up one day realizing none of it matters—my life, it needs to end.

I closed my eyes as I sucked in my breath. Scanning the place before me, I am yet again enthralled by its beauty. Guess, some things never change, and it hurts that precious ones have to.

“M—mum, I’m sorry. I hadn’t been strong enough. I can’t take it, mum. I can’t face dad—I—I just can’t… please, if you can hear me..”

And before my rationality could interject I leaped out of the cliff and into the high current ocean before me. The waves, slamming against the rocky fortress waiting—welcoming me to plunge in its depths and I felt scared but reassured.

I didn’t really know how high this cliff was, I remembered my mother telling me it was 30 feet high, however, it’s as if its length heightened a double or did everything just went in slow motion?

“Darling, Anastasia.. do you like this place?”

 I felt my cheeks heat up my mood brightened.

 Pink! Mummy, I like that tree. It’s snowing pink leaves.” I said, jumping to and fro stretching my little arms, opening my palms, waiting for the leaves to rest on tiny hands.

 

“She like this place hunn, definitely” I heard dad’s voice saying, I turned to look at them and smiled at the sight of my parents smiling at each other, and just before they would catch me watching them, I turned to look away supressing my giggles.

 

“Someone’s having fun eh? And without daddy! Come here you sly little princess..” I ran like the child that I am.. as my father ran after me laughing, his eyes almost a line, and mother—I saw her laughing but for a second she was already clutching her stomach, her head and the last thing I saw was she was spitting blood.

Blood, it was everywhere.

I ran to her, crying. I didn’t know what to do.

"I told you not to get out of the house.. hunny, please. Annie.. wife.. please hold on.”

Mum. She was not supposed to get out of the house, I knew that, but I insisted her to take me somewhere beautiful—I was the one who let her out of the house. I was the one who let my mother died. I killed my own mother.

The reason why my father hated me—hated his own daughter, and I deserve this.

I deserve to die.

Soon after, I felt the water envelope me. I plunged in deep, my eyes half close seeing red blood fused with the sea water, I knew the blood came from me—came from my head as it was slammed against the hard rock before my body drifted in the depths of the sea. And just before I lose my life, I imagined my mum smiling like she used to and dad patting my head.

At least, for one last time, I could picture them happy—smiling at me, proud of me as their daughter but I know none of it would happen—cause everything was just a memory, a memory I tried holding on but got slipped away.

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