Read Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story for Free Online Page B

everything we could, but there was just too
much damage. I truly am sorry, Mrs Cartwright.”
    Why he needed my
undivided attention to rip another third of my heart out, I’ll
never know.
    I fist the sheet
and turn back to my father, noticing Luke leaning on a wall in the
background studying me. He fills my blurry vision as the last
doctor introduces herself. Dr Avery Baxter - she’s Scottish,
according to her accent anyway. I find it ironic how, with all the
devastation that pours past her lips, the same devastation I
witnessed earlier, somehow manages to sound less severe, less
intense with the addition of her brogue.
    Or maybe it’s
because she already took the third of my heart that belonged to
Ella. At least she doesn’t bother with sympathy pats or rehearsed
expressions, she simply wipes away a stray tear and lets me know to
contact her directly if I have any questions, then leaves the
room.
    So that’s it
then. We’re done.
    My family has
been taken away from me.
    Three precious
lives cut far too short and all that’s left to show for it are
hollow words and lifeless forms.
     

Chapter 3
    I’VE COME TO learn that there’s only
one thing harder than picking out the casket to bury your husband
in. It’s choosing out two additional caskets to bury your children
in.
    And if that’s
not hard enough, the next challenge is the lining. Black for
Brendan - he always looked handsome in black. For Ella, it’s pink
bedding with a soft as silk purple pillow and Mattie girl, orange
with a blue pillow to cradle her in her forever sleep.
    The casket stain
is a dark brown, almost black for my husband.
    My husband .
    Is Brendan still
my husband now that he’s gone? How do you refer to the love of your
life when they’re no longer there? He’s not an ex - we never parted
by choice, didn’t divorce, yet we are separated. So what does that
make him?
    Where does that
leave me?
    Both of the
girls are given white cas- cask- encasements. What colour could I
possibly choose other than the symbol of purity, even if you can
argue the point when it came to Mattie and her adventurous
spirit?
    Is that what she
is now? An adventurous spirit?
    And Ella? A
cautious princess spirit?
    If you’re
wondering how I can be so frank about all of this, I can’t. I’m
lying to everyone, especially myself.
    I can’t stand
the sombre tones the funeral directors speak in or how they sound
as though they’re talking down to a three year old me, using no
greater than two syllable words consisting of a maximum two vowels
and three consonants.
    They must think
you lose brain cells when you lose loved ones.
    You don’t. Trust
me, it would be so much better if you did.
    I don’t like the
way they walk with a practised rigid step and make that annoying
static scuffing sound. I hate the way the place is artificially
quiet and how everyone talks in whispers. It’s irritating. The dead
are already dead, for God’s sake. It’s not like we’re going to be
able to wake them speaking at normal volumes. Hell we could shout
out from the roof tops and still not disturb them.
    Idiots.
    I loathe the
cliché music they suggest I use during the service, the videos they
want to play and photos they expect me to suffer through in front
of everyone because that way we can all reminisce and remember the
good times from way back when.
    How can a child
even have a ‘way back when’ to reminisce when they’ve barely
had a chance to live in the first place?
    I detest the
dressing up, the doing of hair, applying of makeup, the making of
fake appearances. I hate it all. If it was up to me, we’d all be
wearing our pyjamas, hair unkempt, faces free of camouflage,
sitting around scooping up ice cream with chunks of chocolate and
drinking coffee. Real life, real losses. None of this pretending
bullshit because it’s easier to hide behind or because it looks
nicer or is expected.
    You know
what?
    If you can’t
take my reality, my forever, then stay the hell away.