“It isn’t likely that she will recover,” said the doctor. Her dark brown hair was tied back tightly so that she could appear to be smiling, even when the corners of her mouth turned with doubt. The bags under her eyes and vacant stare indicated her detached reality and fake sympathy. Isabella sat in the cheaply made chair. The fabric chafed against her elbows. She looked blankly at the doctor. A single word whispered the notion of negligence. She blinked the thought away and stared blankly at the clouds collecting in large mounds of vapor. Her mother asked for a view before the coma took hold of her. A parking lot with a massive highway paralleled by a line of trees, and a billboard reading; 

MANIFEST YOUR DESTINY. 

Call 1-777 REALEST

RealEst. Realty

Was all the hospital could provide. She wished nothing more than for it to be over. For her mother’s suffering to end and for the narcissistic manipulation to be taken with her. You mustn’t speak unkindly of the dead. The whispers continued breathing only within her own mind. Her mother lay in the bed staring blankly at the ceiling. Her mouth was agape with a large plastic tube protruding out of her mouth. The air was thick with the anticipation of death. The cloudy sky whispered of rain and dotted the window. “Are you sure? Is there really nothing we can do?” Isabella continued. “The hearing is the last thing to go,” said a web article she had only read half of. “I would get your affairs in order,” the doctor replied with a half smile. What is she smiling about? Whispered another inside her head. Isabella collected her things, a large brown purse decorated with cultural patches of Hispanic origin, her collection of keys, some necessary, some not, and her brown suede coat, the most expensive thing she owned, valued at two hundred dollars on the designer website, but forty at the second-hand store. 

She closed the door behind her, worried that it'd be the last time that she may have seen her mother alive, but something else crept in. It was an ugly emotion that sat at the back of her throat like vomit waiting to emerge from its prison. Relief. 

Her black boots worn down on either side echoed through the hallways. She clutched her purse closely to her chest and put her head down, embarrassed by her scrubbing thighs. A rip had formed where they touched, but her wages from the cleaning service she worked for did not cover a new pair until next month. A nurse ran up behind her with a clipboard and stethoscope around her neck. “Miss! Miss!” She cried. Isabella turned around. The nurse had long silky black hair and pink pouty lips. The mole on her cheek accentuated her features unlike Isabella’s, which was large and protruding from her chin. She had long eyelashes and a sparkle in her eye indicative of a confident yet kind human being. “Miss, you forgot to go to the front desk and pay the remainder of your mother’s hospital fees. Remember, we spoke on the phone, I’m Ezzy, short for Esmeralda!”

“Oh, yes! I remember. How much was it again?” 

“Oh, I’m not sure, check with the nurse at the desk she’ll let you know.”

A man with short Korean Pop Star hair tapped Ezzy on the shoulder beckoning her to come with him. He looked short from afar but was in fact taller than average, six feet with a simple muscular build. His skin was olive and his eyebrows well tamed. “Oh! Sorry, I have to go now, he needs help with a patient. Are you okay to go by yourself?”

“Yes,” replied Isabella as a tingle crawled up her thigh.

“Okay great! Again, sorry.” Ezzy ran down the hall after the tall handsome man. Isabella checked her purse for her wallet. She found the white purse with frayed edges and a broken zipper. As she struggled to open the zipper, a loud buzz rang across the intercom. "Please check room 246B", the patient is in need of assistance. It was her mother’s room. Nearby doctors and nurses jogged in like a colorful stream of teal scrubs and white jackets. Isabella walked towards the room. As she approached the door, she overheard one of the nurses, “She’s going into cardiac arrest!”  

“Get the defibrillator.” said a male nurse.

“No, wait. Her file says DNR.” said a female doctor.

Isabella froze just feet away from the door.

“Note the time of death.” continued the doctor.

“3:59 PM. Notify next of kin.” A woman with her hair tied tightly in a blonde bun hurried out of the room. Isabella felt the emptiness, seep through the wall that divided her guilt and fear. The truth was a formidable foe once realized. The exit looked like salvation, like freedom. She walked towards it. When she opened the doors the ugly emotion returned, the vomit. She breathed over the railing inside the dark stairwell. It was on its way, the relief. Chunks of empanadas, fatigue, orange soda, and frustration decorated the railing and stairs. Isabella dug in her purse for something to clean herself with. She could only find a crumpled tissue with last night’s makeup on it. After restoring her dignity, she hurried down the stairwell and out the doors. Her phone buzzed. It was 4:14. Her bus stop was a half mile away. Drops of rain fell, one by one, heavy with guilty joy. Why am I relieved? She wondered. Isabella walked. Her thighs rubbed raw from jeans not made for bigger women. The drops increased steadily. The cold water, icy, yet refreshing, fell threw her thick curls. The cold Seattle wind blew against her cheeks. Her moment of peace and tranquillity was short-lived, however. For in an instant, the whispers returned like a flame growing in size as it consumed the very thing that fed it, rage.  I wish you were dead…at least I’d have some peace. Her indignant reaction to an argument a mere three weeks prior sent her mother on a frenzy of retribution.

”If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be here at all!” cried her mother. “You would know that if you had had any children! But because you don’t listen to me, you had to get infected by that boy!”  

“That’s not how endometriosis works Mother! It’s a condition.”’ Isabella retorted. 

“I’ve never had it!” 

“Pero abuela did! It’s not my fault!”

“Don’t speak ill of the dead! Even if she did, she never complained as much as you do! God I wish I had another daughter. I want grandchildren! But all I have is you. And what are you? You’re 37, overweight, barely employed, and I swear estupid. Because you can’t be anything better than a cleaner. Your cousin, she’s a nurse! She has a house in Los Angeles and two children! Tell me Isabella, what are you doing with your life!”

“I’m doing the best that I can!” Isabella cried, tears rolling down her face. She wiped them with her sleeve.

“Oh please don’t cry about it! You’re always so emotional! Fix your life! Then you won’t cry so much!”

“I hate you!” Isabella whispered.

“What did you say to me!”

“I said I hate you and I wish you were dead!”

“How dare you!”

“If you were gone… at least I’d have some peace!” Isabella ripped her bag from the couch and slammed the door behind her.

The memory was unforgivingly suspended like the heavy clouds above her. Like the suffocation the thought inflicted, so did the rain, drowning Isabella in her mother’s control. Absent in body yet immortally transfixed to her self-worth. The bus stop was a hundred meters away as was her ride home. She ran. Shoes filling with water, hair drenched. “Wait!” she called out, hoping that her voice would carry above the heavy rain. Two people boarded the bus, she was twenty meters away. Soaking wet, she boarded, acknowledging the driver for his kindness. She searched for a seat but Number 4 to Northgate was always crowded. A woman holding a baby had a vacant seat next to her, but her face of disgust forced her to stand. The mother had bright pink lipstick and red hair. She smacked her gum loudly. Her silver puffy jacket was wet with cold rain. It smelled of cigarettes and fried meat. She bounced the baby up and down while holding a fast food bag full of formula. She was an aggressive chewer. Isabella stared at her, thoughts creeping in like a trickle of water before the faucet turned on. Who does she think she is? 

Why did she look at me like that? 

She’s the one who’s disgusting. 

That’s probably why the baby’s crying. 

That poor baby's probably got something wrong with it. 

Neglect. Poor parenting. Mother probably did it too. That's why I turned out this way. 

“What are you looking at?!” yelled the woman. “I’m not looking at anything. I’m sorry.” Isabella said, realizing how hard she had been staring at her.

“Look, I don’t swing that way!” she replied angrily.

“I’m not– What?! No, I wasn’t paying attention is all. I’m sorry!”

“Whatever...You look like the type!” The woman gave the most severe side eye and chewed even harder. 

Isabella blushed and stared down at her purse. She’s got some nerve. I said nothing to her. I’m so sick of people thinking they can do and say whatever they want. I’m sick of bullies and manipulators getting their way. Isabella lifted her eyes, forgiveness, empathy, restraint hid from the darkness clouding her judgment. She focused on the woman's relentless chewing. I hope you choke on that gum, 

you stupid 

pasty 

ho! 

Said a voice so loud in her head, she thought she had spoken it. But no one stirred.

The woman stopped chewing.

She held her baby close to her.

Her face turned an unsightly color that matched her hair. 

She pounded her chest with her free hand. 

The McDonald's bag fell on the floor. 

She coughed and pleaded with her eyes for rescue. Isabella stared, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. The woman gagged and coughed as the sticky ball of protest stuck to the sides of her throat. An older gentleman with frizzy grey hair sticking out beneath a flat brown cap stirred from his intense reading of the newspaper. "Dear God!" He exclaimed. He erected himself like the ghost of a generation that knew of war and the value of life. He pushed Isabella aside and others who had outstretched their hands with their phones as if at a premature vigil. The woman behind them, quiet and meek, pulled the baby out of the rude woman's arms. The bus driver stopped in preparation for an emergency. The old man heaved with the women. Finally, the sticky goo flew out and slid down the window. 

The bus cheered and murmured. 

The bus continued. 

Isabella got out at the next stop. The rain had softened. She walked the rest of the way home. After half a mile of walking, she had finally reached the little pink home with a cold, lonely flamingo in the front yard. She pulled out her keys and opened the door to the empty house that now belonged to her. Isabella cried, on the sofa not from loss but from rage. It grew hot in her ears and throat. She threw her purse on the floor. And breathed relief. The coffee table was just as she left it. An angel, a frog, and a pink pig all made of porcelain stared at her incriminatingly, gifts from her abuela. The dried coffee at the bottom of her mother's ironic coffee mug, Living La Vida Cocoa, reminded her of their epic fight. Mother had won the battle, but had she, in fact, won the war. Her dried red lipstick stained the edge. The urge to shatter it bloomed like a multi-headed hydra. Break it, the one possession she cared for. Her mother had received the mug from the only man she had ever loved. Eduardo. She wanted to test it. See if, in fact, her cousins were right. She was the bruja of the family, the dark spirit. A witch living amongst the faithful. The repugnant smirk on her mother's face when the words had been uttered aired doubt, however, just like everything else. Her? A bruja, no way. She can't even summon a job. A bruja could cast a spell and have a wealthy husband or at least be a manager somewhere. Bruja, ha estupid. She fantasised about the entire house burning, and that smug mug along with it. Quickly she stamped out the thought. If her suspicions were correct and she was indeed a witch, she needed a place to live, even if it was filled with memories of her trauma.

Her exhaustion had defeated her, a hot shower was a better use of her energy and time, not some fantasy about manipulative abilities. She put away her thoughts and let the warm water stream down her curves. The suds lathered and gathered around her breasts and thighs. There was a balming tranquility about the house, but something was coming, she could feel it like the rumbling of thunder before a storm.

She threw on her favorite pink fluffy robe and took out her comfort food, spicy lime corn chips. She sat on the couch and took out her phone. Cracks webbed down the front of her screen but the image was still visible. She scrolled through videos of cats performing tricks and dog rescuers. "Manifest your life. Manifest your reality" said a beautiful influencer. Then something familiar showed up on her feed. Her. Standing on a bus. #heroboomer was trending. She read through the comments.

 “What a great guy! I have faith in humanity.”

 “Why are people just standing there? Ugh, these phones are killing society.”

 “That girl is just standing there watching her choke. Why did the man have to intervene in the first place?”

  “Yeah, who does that?”

      “But the others are just recording what happened. So is she really that bad?” 

      “She could have at least taken the baby.” 

      “Maybe she was in shock.”

      “People are horrible these days.”

   “I can't stand people that don't care about others. What an asshole!!!!”

  “Ugh, that's why we should stop letting immigrants into our country they're not helping our citizens anyways.”

   “Ugh, WTF someone get this clown.” 

Isabella paced the living room, contemplating on what to say, what would suffice as an appropriate comeback or defense? Her leg bumped the table and bruised her shin. She held it tightly, wincing at the sudden pain. It was then she noticed, the "Living La Vida Cocoa" broken into several perfect fragments. When had she done it? Broom she thought. She had to sweep it up quickly before… before nothing her mother was dead. Hooray the wicked witch is dead! Another relentless whisper. She finished cleaning up the mess and turned on the stove, the light flickered. The gas must be out, she thought. She filed through the bills for the gas receipt. It had been paid. She fumbled with the switch again. It ticked but no fire. Frustratedly she filled a cup of milk and put it in the microwave to boil. The cocoa and milk were soothing. The one positive memory she had in the household. She sat on the couch and turned on the television. She flipped through the channels and stared at beautiful people having beautiful situations. 

A knock on the door. 

She jolted awake from her daydream. Another knock. It was her tia, she went to the door yet hesitated to open it. 

"I know you are in there Isabella open up."

Exclaimed her Aunt Rosalyn. 

"Yes, hold on." She put her head against the door. Her Aunt Roz was the superstitious type, and incredibly talkative. Piety was her friend, her spouse, her son, and her daughter. Mother Mary and God were above all others. 

"You know it runs in the family!" Said Tía rushing the words out of her mouth as if words themselves were having a liquidation sale. 

"What does?" Isabella sighed. 

"Early death. Your mother was only sixty-five." She fumbled with her purse and took out items for prayer, a Santa Muerte candle, some flowers, and colorful beads. She lined them up compulsively next to the porcelain jury. 

"Does it really?" Isabella inquired without much interest in the subject. 

"Yes! It happened to your Tio Raphael and your Tia Maria. All dead as a doornail before their time." Rosalyn searched through drawers while she rambled on through their family history. 

"Tia, what are you looking for?" Asked Isabella calmly. She breathed steadily at the anxious nature of her tia. She wished she’d leave. In fact, if it all were gone she’d be happier for it. The whole family was rotten, as Tia said.

"Nevermind I found it!"

She lit the match for the candle, but before any prayers could be spoken before any tears could be shed before any redemption could be made, the house was ablaze. The ball of fire flew at them from the kitchen. It roared through the living room, setting ablaze the single photo of Abuela, known for her temper and disdain for her children. The flames swallowed the green couch, where Isabella first received a smack from mother, pink nail polish lasts forever when spilled. The fire gorged itself through the doubt, and suffering, the guilt, and the fear. Through the cycle of vengeance and submission. And as the roof opened wide to the sky, the damp air calmed the empty souls below. But the whispers remained, traveling like packs of wolves, feasting on the insecurities of their next victim. Trapped inside the charred porcelain jury. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.