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t w e n t y n i n e » m o k i t a

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— mokita —
(n) referring to the truth everyone knows about but agrees not to speak of
origin ; papua new guinean

i apologise in advance for what's to come

february twenty first
adrianna's mother's death anniversary

« 00:00 »

My eyes shot open and I look over at the clock on my nightstand. I really do have perfect fucking timing. I could feel the tears forming and every single memory rushing to the center of my thoughts. I bury my face in my pillow and cry softly, not wanting to start sobbing wholly.

Three years. Three years and I am still a bloody mess.

It's been three years, three years without having my mother by my side, and it was complete and utter hell. And of course, no one really knew that. I covered it all with a façade — to almost everyone, I was a girl of blissful tears, smiles, languid laughs, and untainted happiness. But inside, I was ripping myself apart continually, I was in pain, and I was just a heartbroken girl whose heart kept shattering without permission. Could I blame my heart though? I was always setting myself up for heartbreak with these false expectations I had in my head. I fucking hated myself.

I wonder how dad was taking this. And I cannot fucking believe, for the life of me, how my father could possibly have a business trip this week. And my suspicions - god knows what exactly they are - were only heightening. He has never had a business trip this time of year, and this stands true for as long as I could remember.

He had to remember today, right? Even if he was miles away? Mom was buried here in Florida and every year dad and I would fly out here and visit her. This year, I'd have to ask Hunter to take me; he was the only other friend apart from Adrian. And he was long gone back to California.

I turned over again, lying on my back this time and stared up at the ceiling emotionlessly. I was numb; I didn't know how or what to feel.

My phone rang at exactly 12:05am and I snatched it from my nightstand to see it was my father.

"Hello?" My voice came out thick with sleep.

"Sweetheart, how are you?" Concern bled through his words, but sadness laced them even more.

"I'm okay dad, what about you?" My main priority was my father. We weren't together and he always cried on this day. This was the one day each year I'd see my father stricken with emotion and now he didn't have my shoulder to cry on, I didn't want him to cry alone. I didn't want him to bare that pain alone. Not when the cause of it was all my fault.

"I-I'm fine," he cleared his throat, sounding a bit at loss for words, "I'll be back on Saturday though," he voiced quietly, sounding almost inaudible.

"Please ask Hunter to take you to the graveyard today, don't go alone," because we all know what happens when I'm left alone, "Don't go alone baby girl," my father choked out and immediately a new take of emotions ripped right through my insides and I felt sick. Sick of myself. So fucking sick of myself.

It should've been me burning in the car. My mother was supposed to live. If only I hadn't asked her to get frosting for a fucking cake. She died because of a cake. How unreal is that? And I was fifteen, I should've done something. Anything.

I should've done something, is what I so badly wanted to scream out and cry. Why must I be so fucking stupid?

"Adrianna, don't cry," my dad's voice cracked and I realise I still had him on the phone. I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest while wiping fresh tears from my face.