Heart Hunting novel Chapter 18

In the afternoon, the wind is as quiet as the dead who have passed away. There are only traces of the past.

In the cemetery.

The cemetery is so clean that even the wind seems to be still. Poppy borrowed Arno's car and drove for more than an hour to her mother's grave.

She walks in step by step with a bunch of white carnations in her hand, her eyes are solemn, and her mouth is tight without a smile.

After a while, her footsteps lighten a little. She comes to her mother's grave, and looks at the mottled picture of her mother. Her eyes can't help but red.

There is no fresh grass in the overgrown cemetery. The withered grass is like the sad life. People only become a bunch of white bones in the end.

She puts down the flowers and kneels in front of the tombstone, sobbing, "Mom, I've came back alive from abroad.."

The weeds around her mother's tombstone are reborn. Poppy pulls and burns all of them. Her white hand are pricked by the weeds. At last, she wipes the tombstone clean, especially the picture that has been mottled.

When everything is cleaned up, she puts the carnation in front of the tombstone. The place where the wind passes is scattered with the fragrance. However, the black-and-white photo makes Poppy's heart more painful.

The warm wind in early summer blows her hair, but it can't warm her cold heart.

"Mom, I said before I left, that as long as I come back from America alive, I will never let that family live well. Now, it's time for me to fulfill my promise."

She sits down, close to the cold tombstone, but her heart becomes warm. "You once said to me that we must be good, and a good person will have good rewards, but see what happened to you? Is this the ‘good rewards' for a good person?"

The sadness and hatred in her eyes interweave into a group, and the past scenes are replayed in her mind like a movie, just like a knife cutting her wrist.

And the blood flows silently in her heart. Usually she doesn't feel so painful. But the pain at this moment seems to suffocate her.

The scene of her mother's death reappears in her mind.

The red blood flowed from the wound of the wrist endlessly. Her mother was lying in the pool of blood, she was as pale as a piece of fragile white paper. At the age of ten, Poppy saw her mother's death with her own eyes.

But no matter how she shouted or how she cried, her mother didn't wake up to look at her.

Poppy raises a bitter smiles, and touches at the black-and-white photos with her cold fingers. "Mom, if I become a bad woman. Don't blame me. They force me!"

She looks at the sky. "Directly killing a person does not make her suffer from torture and pain. Only by taking away her most precious and caring things, can she live worse than death."

It's this kind of feeling makes her impressive and unforgettable. Her mother's death is the pain of her life.