"Because."

That was Sandy's usual answer to her mother's usually long and intricate questions. Sandy would respond, "Why bother with syllogisms?" when her mother asks, "Why just because?" And then, her face would just turn away and her mouth would just mutter something about an unwanted prolonged discussion with her mother.

Sandy's mother worked as a talk-show host. A respectable career, in many people's minds, as it was evident now, judging by the swarm of black attires gathered here. A funeral was being held in honor of Pierre. He was not famous, not even slightly known, but Sandy's mother was well-known. She was always on TV. So other celebrities came and paid their respects to Pierre. But most people knew that they were only there to pay their respects to Sandy's mother.

Sandy was a thorn in her mother's shoulder, as she was just now when her mother asked why her daughter was laughing. "Because," Sandy answered.

Her mother never quite understood her; she had thought Sandy loved Pierre as strongly as she did. With this thought, she kept on persisting that Sandy should answer the question "properly." That meant more than a one-word answer.

So Sandy said, "Because I am not crying."

Sandy did not feel that it was her right to cry. She did not think her tears, however many, would pool sufficiently and reach Piece's heart. She questioned whether Pierre ever had a heart in the first place. She even doubted Pierre's ability to hear her now.

Sandy had met Pierre when she was eighteen. That's the time when she started hating herself. But she couldn't live without that feeling. Pierre had told Sandy one day that he would do her face; he felt that Sandy had put on her makeup all wrong. He never had the courage to tell her she's not beautiful. Sandy thought that Pierre was trying to caress her, in some way, using cosmetics as an excuse. But she was always misunderstood.

Sandy now glimpsed at the woman who was her mother, and then remembered Pierre, who was lying snugly in his coffin, which was near the buffet table for convenience's sake. Many visitors had better things to do: their only purpose was to show their faces.

Sandy sometimes wished to trade places with Pierre, especially at this hour of mourning. But she admitted to herself that it gave her a sense of pleasure to see him there. After all, Pierre had taught her many things. He had taught her never to take a puff of smoke nor down any alcoholic beverages. He said that he had learned it from TV.

So she never did. Pierre also taught her how to love hating herself.

Pierre had his insights, one of them being this mantra: that hating one's self could tum out to be a wonderful, healthy feeling. The problem with Pierre was he never could be consistent with his own character. He had broken Sandy's spirit, and that's not the first time. Nevertheless, Sandy hoped fervently that one day she would stop hoping. She had hoped for Pierre's unrequited love.

She loved him but couldn't bear the thought of being with him. But even so, she hoped. She had hoped before that she would grow taller and boy, she grew. She had hoped that she would never be poor, and now they're rich. She also had hoped that Pierre would never know how he had broken her spirit, and he never did. He believed that he had only broken her heart.

But Sandy never blamed him. His only fault was being French.

Pierre had died on a Sunday. When others asked around about the story of his death, people just shrugged and said: "He just couldn't wait."

He just couldn't wait for Sandy's birthday. If he had lived for seven more days, Pierre wouldn't have missed it. But he was too excited that he died, and as they said, "He just couldn't wait."

Sandy could not believe that it had been already six years since she met Pierre at his parlor. She only thought it was yesterday; this was not a cliche. But it had been a quick six years trying to get accustomed to pain. Sandy felt the pain now in her mouth, in her tongue: it tasted salty.

Somehow, Sandy knew, from instinct she supposed, that Pierre would never offer her painkillers, only pain. She knew Pierre would someday abandon her for another woman. Only then she didn't know that it would be her mother.

Sandy soon found out one Sunday. She had been sauntering to his parlor when she saw him standing near the pink door. She had remembered Pierre's smile across the street, and she had thought it was meant for her. She had waved back, and he had smiled more. He had white teeth, or was it yellow? It had been sunny that afternoon.

But then Sandy remembered that Pierre rarely smiled at her, at least not that kind of smile. So she turned and looked, and there she saw her mother standing beneath a shade. From then on, she felt insecure, more than she thought she could ever feel.

Sandy knew that she needed help, but she never asked for it. She never asked for anything. She somehow knew that she'll never get what she wanted. She seemed to want something that did not and will not belong to her. She had wanted the world. But it did not want her.

The hour of mourning was almost over. Sandy went to where Pierre rested and kissed his lips. She never had a chance to do it when he was alive. Sandy had not kissed him while his taut body had been church this morning, in private. She disliked churches & she disliked Sundays. Sundays never did anything good for her. But for Pierre's sake, she came.

To do it for Pierre's sake was doing it for her mother's sake, who was taking Pierre's death badly. Her mother had just known that Pierre had never been an admirer of females. And she had learned this from her ex-husband, not Sandy's father, who had known it along all this time. And he's now part of this crowd.

But for all this Sandy never wept. Pierre had taught her well. Her six years of practice had paid off. She knew now that she had never loved anyone or anything, but Pain.

Hello Reader! It's me again.
Like some of my other stories, they are based on my experiences and this one was no exception. I wrote it when I was very young during a dark phase of my life.

Now that I look back on it, I think I was being overly dramatic. Or maybe I watched too much Jerry Springer, which I heavily regretted.

Did you watch any talk shows that you ended up thinking they were a waste of your time?