Alright, so this is my biggest project EVER. Why? Because I plan on publishing this as a book when my senior year is over. I would really like lots of constructive critisism and suggestions and all that. I would love it. I love reviews and favorites and I relaly hope this all goes really well.

I'd like to thank Draven Valentine for slightly inspiring me. She's spectacular. This is NOT a copy of her saga. If it seems that way, I'm sorry. Her ideas are her own, and mine are my own. We just both enjoy emo boys. Who doesn't?

Enjoy the show!

The Emo Boy and His Beginning

Prologue

"Dying is not romantic, and death is not a game which will soon be over... Death is not anything... death is not... It's the absence of presence, nothing more... the endless time of never coming back... a gap you can't see, and when the wind blows through it, it makes not sound..." – Tom Stoppard

For the majority of first time fathers, most people would think that the birth of their first-born daughter would be the ultimate joy in their life. Most people would think that first time father would spoil their daughters so much that they grew up to be shallow, stupid, and insensitive. And most people would think that they'd love them and coddle them and say things like "boys are icky" so you don't even look at them at all until you realize that they're not as "icky" as your dad told you they were.

Yeah, well, most people are idiots.

My father hates my very existence. Now, he hasn't always hated me. Ever since I had gotten to about the age of three and he realized I was not the perfection my mother was, I believe he has resented me.

My mother was the epitome of greatness. My father worshiped the very ground she walked on. He was an artist so his new muse became her and her alone. Everywhere you went, there was always some form of my mother either as a painting, a sculpture. Anything.

I got used to seeing my mother, so to speak, when I was younger. She was all over the house, so I never really missed her or felt far away from her since she was always right there.

Tragic thing was, my mother was dying.

I was eight around the time my mother found out she had cancer. Since I was eight, I didn't realize how terrible this was until my mother could no longer do things on her own. She was reduced to a so-called vegetative state and my father took her to the hospital for permanent monitoring.

Slowly, my father was deteriorating as my mother wasted away in the hospital room. Each day, she looked less and less like herself and in my eight-year-old mind; I was starting to understand that something was terribly wrong. My father was spending all his time in her hospital room and he threw fits like a child when the nurses came to tell him that visiting hours were over.

The last day I saw my mother is a day I will not ever forget. I climbed up into bed with her and she held me close. All her beautiful brown hair had fallen out and she was pale and very fragile looking. Her skin felt like ice. But she was still my mother.

"Honey," she had said. "Mama has to talk to you about something very important. Do you think you could listen for a second?"

I was scared. "Okay, mama," I told her, wanting to be strong for her.

She had hesitated, tears trickling down her thin cheeks. "Mama's not gonna make it, sweetie," she whispered, pulling me closer.

"Mmhm?" I garbled, not understanding what that meant.

"Mama's going to die, Hannah," she whispered, her grip starting to loosen around me. I got scared and rolled over to face my mother, watching her head rest back against the pillows. It looked like she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open and her breathing was fluttery. The beeping heart monitor next to her bed was barely beeping anymore; just slow beeps ever once and a while.

Beeep… beeep… beeep…

"Hannah," she breathed, trying to reach up and touch my small cheek. I gripped her hand and pressed it to my face, tears falling from my eyes. I still didn't understand what was happening to my mother. "Always remember that I love you," she murmured.

"Mama?" I leaned up, feeling her hand go limp against my skin. The heart monitor reduced to a steady beep and something hit me like a train.

My mother was dead.

Colors swarmed around my eyes, crushing my retinas and then pulling me under the ocean of numbness, of not wanting to realize the full pain. I felt something grip me by the waist, lifting me to the ground and then taking me away. Nurses and doctors rushed around me and I heard buzzing and frantic voices, almost as if they were speaking another language but I could not see anything.

All I could feel were my hot tears that streamed down my girlish cheeks and my father gripped my hand, leading me away from the lifeless body of what was once my mother.

She was not dead. Merely, she was in a coma. Though she may as well have been dead.

I never heard her voice again.