Sorry Never Made the Dead Come Back to Life:

Written By:

Alexis Herrera

“‘Sorry’ never made the dead come back to life.” That’s what my mother used to tell me. It usually followed after I’d mutter some meek apology for having done something that displeased her—embarrassing her in front of her coworkers by having a wrinkle in my dress, not having the dinner table set in a timely manner or, in our later years, not having a constant stream of whiskey at the ready, topped off in her unwashed glass. 

It was her favorite kind of cruelty—quiet, logical, unforgiving. It was her weak attempt of guilting me into perfection. I shouldn’t ever have to apologize because I should never do things that warranted an apology. As I grew older, I realized how unbelievably dysfunctional this was. 

And yet, it still played on repeat in my head as I stood over her lifeless body, a freshly swung baseball bat still heavy in my hands. The swift crack reverberated through my bones, the sound duller than expected. Quieter. Almost merciful. I watched a pool of blood trickle from her crooked jaw and could almost see her chapped lips form the words; “‘Sorry’ never made the dead come back to life.” 

I know what you must be thinking. Yes, my mother’s way of parenting, if you could call it that, was... undignified—but surely it didn’t warrant death? And you’d be right. It wasn’t her lack of motherly instinct that caused me to wonder what aluminum would sound like, cracked against her skull. It wasn’t the neverending mental or physical abuse. It wasn’t even the “games” she let her boyfriends play. 

If I’m being honest, I don’t think I can rightly say what it was exactly. If I’m being truthful, I think it was when all of that stopped.

I bore into her desolate eyes with mine, not totally sure what I was looking for. A sign of life? A look of awareness? Maybe a glimpse of the mother she used to be? Whatever it was, I didn’t find it. 

I can’t say exactly how long I stood there, looming over her stilling corpse—not a single thought playing in my head. It wasn’t until I heard the old grandfather clock chime in the foyer that I could really piece together what had led to that moment.

It started off typical. I woke myself for school, cleaned up for the day, ate breakfast while waiting for the tutor to arrive. I did my classes, practiced piano, walked through the garden… the sun was out but it smelled like rain… The day began to settle, and before I retired to the entertainment room where I’d undoubtedly fall asleep, I decided to check on Mother 

Six days prior, she decided she was no longer speaking to me. I had spilled a glass of her Balvenie whiskey on my way to the parlor. Apparently I was unkempt and unruly, and she wanted nothing more to do with me. I wrote it off as another one of her tantrums, but she kept true to her word. She uttered not a single syllable to me since that day; she wouldn’t even accept her tumbler from me—she had our housekeeper sustain her unquenchable thirst instead.

I was annoyed for a moment, and then relieved to have the rest of the afternoon free from her clenches. The second day, I was surprised she was keeping up with the ruse, but walked away pettily, content to have another day of freedom. 

By the third day I found myself angry. I put up with her antics for the better half of my life, and one mistake had me ostracized? 

Then, on day four, I was shamelessly throwing myself at her—offering her refills, foot rubs, a warm bath—all to no avail. It seemed she was intent on casting me aside; either that, or she enjoyed seeing me frantically stumble for her attention. 

On the fifth day, I didn’t try so hard. I was irritated that her game was getting to me so Alexis Herrera — 3 much. She was irksome and ghastly every other day of my life, so I couldn’t understand why her blatant disregard toward my existence felt worse. 

That day, on the sixth day, I woke up… tired. I’d never felt exhaustion like that before. I was restless throughout the night, waking up nearly every hour. While I persisted through, a looming presence of gloom hovered over the back of my head. Although it wasn’t particularly busy, my feet dragged at every step and I was, nonetheless, ready for it to end. 

It took a lot of self-convincing to peek through the parlor room doors instead of trudging up the stairs to assure repose. But I did—and it would soon prove to be a decision that changed the trajectory of my life forever—one that began my slow descent into madness.