Superstitions

 A crash like that of a window breaking woke me with a start. My eyes fluttered open as I forced my body upright. Adrenaline ran through my blood. I quickly ran for the door. I sprinted down the hall way and took the stairs by two. The house was dark, except for a dim light that came seeping from the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. I stood silently at the bottom of the staircase searching for a reason that any of this was happening. Finally I exhaled; it occurred to me I had been holding my breath since I had reached the first floor. As quietly as I could I walked over to the lights. I was careful not to step on the creaky floor boards; I knew exactly where they were from past experiences. I finally reached the bathroom. I grabbed the door knob as a chill ran down my back. What could possibly be going on? I turned the knob and opened the door slightly. The first thing I saw was the shimmering slabs of mirror that lay fallen on the ground. Millions of pieces scattered around the bathroom tiles. I opened the door as far as it would go, and there I saw her. My beautiful mother. Her beach blonde hair swayed in the water, and her bright blue eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, her skin was as white as snow. My mother lay in a bathtub, dead. Tears filled my eyes as I grabbed the phone and dialed the number I thought I would never need. “911?” I asked, “Yes” was the woman’s response. I quickly explained my situation. She asked a few question like my name, my address and my age. “Eleven,” I said right before I hung up. I’m eleven. That means 7 years of foster homes, orphanages, or adopted parents. I never believed in superstitions, until now.