THE SECOND GREAT TRAGEDY

"Practice your typing," Mom said. My fingers glided across the typewriter with ease. I'm often praised for it. Never have I seen a child at your age with such incredible skill. These days you could hardly say twelve is a child, but that's how they see me. My mom was adamant I had a proper education. She said if Dad had a proper education, he'd understand how money worked. I used to think I knew what she meant, but I'd find out later that I didn't know a single thing about her "Are you typing?" she'd ask and my hands would start typing again. I only paused for a moment. I felt my fingers cramp. The heavy keys began to become harder to push down and then my typing became less elegant.

I'm used to typing with such great focus that I didn't see her face. I didn't see her tears. After she died, I wondered if the stains had been there already or if she made them just a few moments before her death. "Keep typing," she instructed me. She put her hand on my head and stroked my hair. I tried to turn up and look at her. I only stopped for a moment to look up at my mom and smile, but then her hand slipped from my head and she said, "You're not done." My eyes moved back to the keys as I copied every word from the books she lent to me. I didn't see her face.

Dad was at work. He worked hard down by the docks, tossing sacks of fish into crates for processing. After the sailor's catch of the week, he'd go to the warehouse where he would gut and de-scale every fish they pushed at him. He didn't stop until the job was done, but the job wouldn't be done til later in the afternoon. Mom would have dinner ready and she wouldn't bother dad about washing up. He smelled of fish guts and moldy sea, but Mom said nothing. He worked hard and came home barely able to hold his own weight, and because of it, she placed his plate down first. We always waited for Dad to come home before we began eating, so he could be served first.

But the night when I couldn't see her face, when I was too focused on my typing, Dad came home early. Before that, I can assure you he never came home early. I remembered how he burst through the door, his panicked eyes meeting my gaze. "Where's your mother?" he asked me. I could tell he tried to sound calm but his voice was strained. I was too confused and focused on my work. I didn't understand what he meant.

"Wha-"

"WHERE!?" he shouted. The panicked expression turned into something crazed and animalistic. For a moment I didn't see my dad but an angry wolf. His teeth were bared and his stance tense and ready for attack. I was going to answer him but-

BANG!

Our heads spun.

I can't possibly explain to you the sound of that pistol going off, how abrupt it was, so surreal. The way I explained it now gave it no justice, it was too sudden and neither my dad or I expected it. Dad kicked off and ran toward the bathroom. It was locked. I heard the bang, bang, bang, when he'd throw his shoulder into the door. It took him exactly a minute to break it down, but it felt like hours. Then the wood snapped from the frame and everything was in full view. Red splattered the wall like a flowering rose. My mom's head was bobbing just slightly in the bathwater.

Dad picked her up with one arm, his breathing becoming quick and harsh. "Call someone!" he said. I didn't move. My eyes locked on the sight of my mom. My dad screamed as before but his face streaming with tears, "BLOODY CALL SOMEONE!"