Being sixteen is no small feat for anyone, especially me. My whole life I was taught to believe something that was never true. I was pushed to my limits since I was about six years old, after my mother died. Pushed to achieve something better things that I really didn't want. My father was an overbearing control freak that loved to find any excuse to punish me for what my mother did. The truth is, I don't really remember what she did. But whatever it was, somehow it was my fault and I was to blame. I was never a good kid, never had a reason to be, I never dealt with the consequences. All I was worried about was my freedom. Guess I should've been much more careful of what I wished for because freedom wasn't my only concern.

"Kailee, how many times have I told you to stay away from there!" I'm five years old again, playing near the neighbor's oleander trees. I ignored my mother's yelling from her bedroom window until she stopped.
"I'm not doing anything, mama!" I yelled back up and just kept going on with my business like nobody cared. I heard my mother's old record player blaring in her room. She liked to play old records that reminded her of her mother. I never really understood why she did it, but then again, no one did.
I remember how quiet the house was when I walked in a few hours later. I was five, I had no concept of time, and I was just out to have fun. I called for my mother several times and received no answer. This wasn't unusual when she was up in her room listening to her music, but there was no music playing. The stairs creaked slightly when I crept up them, listening for the even sound of her breathing because she most likely had fallen asleep. But no sound came from the entire house. Her bedroom door was open a crack and the bright sun seeped out from around the door. I knocked lightly and waited for her to answer, but I never got one. The door hesitated a bit, as it usually did when I opened it, but soon fell open without a fuss. Dead air was playing from the record player and the record was spinning idly. Then I saw her.
There was my mother, lying on her bed, looking peaceful as she had ever looked in her entire life. I didn't understand what was going on, but for some reason I remember every detail of her, every little thing that an ordinary person couldn't or wouldn't have noticed. The way her hair was, what she was wearing, even the way she smelled as I crawled up by her and lay down next to her. I was one of those ignorant little kids that didn't really notice when something was wrong. I didn't notice the fact that she wasn't breathing or the fact that there was blood underneath her still warm body. A five year old knows nothing of this.
My screams must have echoed through the entire house and the neighborhood but nobody came running. I wouldn't remember this day, this moment for most of my life. My mind just kind of blocked things out. That's why I never understood why my father hated me so much. I can remember just laying there with her, holding her lifeless hand close to my heart. The rest of that day I can never remember. I slightly recall my father rushing upstairs after work, a fresh bouquet of white roses in his hand. When he reached the open door, the flowers fell and he stood there, speechless.
Years later, when I was older, he told me what had happened and my mind didn't want to accept it. My mother dead, the warmth slowly draining from her small body, her daughter curled up next to her, not knowing what was going on. I still wonder what happened to those flowers, they were my mother's favorite. She would go buy them for no reason at all because she loved the way they smelled. After her funeral, my father packed up all of her things and got rid of all the things that reminded him of her. Pictures, clothes, her journals. Of all the things I remember about her, I remember the table that she kept by her dresser. That table used to be my favorite thing, filled with small bottles of perfume and her makeup. I could sit there for hours just looking at her. That's why I never understood and refused to accept what she did. She used to be happy, her smile could make anyone happy. But I guess life's funny that way.
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