I never really thought about what it meant. I never took the time to realize that I was losing my best friend; my days were spent grieving'� there was no time to think of anything else. Creepers roam outside my window; what does that mean? That the little creatures would turn and dance before my eyes? My mother knew what she was doing, they say, but to believe them would mean defeat, and I would have to accept this illusion they live in. They are the ones in denial.

I am not in denial because my mother is alive, and my best friend is gone; I am aware of both of these truths and these alone. Nothing else in this world can be certain. The dead shall lay their fury upon those they hate, and I feel no fury.

Her spirit died long ago, but her body remains untouched and unsplintered by my hands. I wish it were different; I wish the anguish and rage would burst like a flood from my veins and cover the earth. They say she is dead, but they only feel the cold presence surrounding her; she should be a ghost with her chilly hands and cold presence. And her spirit is dead; perhaps they are right, and to be dead simply means to be inhuman, left only with thought.

You owe me nothing, and I owe you nothing. Here, between these two walls, we have sat with our backs against the white plaster and our eyes closed. We only see face to face when we open our eyes; never looking into those dark recesses, we stare, for what is held down inside us growls like demons held firmly on the ground. They rattle their chains and drool on our hearts, turning the warm tissue to poison. We will never set them free or kill them, so they will stay there. You owe me nothing.

My life began when my mother died. The armor she created broke free of its hinges, and my life flooded around me. I am still finding myself. There is a certain realization that comes to light when your mother dies, and maybe yours never will.

There was no new beginning or sudden revolution; she died slowly. The cancer that ate her from the inside crept slowly upon her, and her heart began to cease. He never let her alone; and, somewhere along the way, she killed herself in spite of him. None of us knew just when it happened.

Just lately I realized that my mother was dead. Yes, her body still roams around outside my window, but her spirit is long deceased. Never were my tears so fierce or meaningless; they were, I admit, inhuman. I used to think I knew what I was going to be; I know what I'm going to be: a girl who lost her mother.

What good are mothers anyway? They only tell you what to do and where to go, supposedly leading you down the right path. No one needs a path, only a goal. How you get there doesn't matter; maybe getting there doesn't really matter either, only that you try and have a purpose.

Certain things can destroy your mother, and others will encourage her. Maybe you love her; maybe she has been good to you. Mine was killed by the cancer, never spoken of and hardly ever thought about. He lives in your heart and in your flesh; he seeps into your wounds and makes you feel what you thought you could never feel. He lies to you, and he manipulates you into killing your own mother. He gets down into your soul and squeezes the insides of your stomach, causing you to puke and breathe and puke again, until it no longer hurts.

Then, when he is seemingly through, he finds a new pain in your heart. He finds the pulse beating through you and sees your rosy skin; he tells you it's all okay in a sweet voice.

'You'll be fine. It's fine.'�

Only it's not fine at all. Your skin goes numb, and you can no longer suffer. Your heart is bitter, for there is no warmth circulating through it.

That's why I need a friend. I've lost my friends, my best friend, in particular. That is you, by the way. Just in case you didn't catch my drift there. Whether or not I need my mother back is a statement I am not prepared to make. I wish my mother was completely and utterly dead. I wish my mother was alive. I wish the creepers roaming outside my window would just leave me alone. I wish they would stop haunting my house and my dreams, and just go away. What could they possibly want?

The creepers are my mother. You were my mother. You didn't die; you only went away for awhile. Maybe forever; I don't know. I don't think you know yourself. Will you come back? Neither of us knows for sure. Maybe the death of my mother will convince you. Of course, you were always aware of her condition; you just didn't acknowledge it.

Maybe, now that her disappearance has been brought to light, you will realize that I need your help more than ever. You never wanted to help me before; I have no clue why you should now, but it has been brought to my attention that you are the only one who can free her. She's stuck, you see, in her own world, stuck in dead. She's stuck outside with the creepers, and she roams around with them in their green fields. She doesn't want me anymore, and I don't want her. It is a plan and simple fact that we despise each other. I hate her, but my hands are not stained. That's the way everything should be done: with clean hands and an empty heart.

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