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Some that know me well enough know that this day is a day of mourning for me. February 14, a day that has become known in this society for relationships and love. The rest of the girls swoon over their boys who buy them the cliche cards, chocolates, teddy bears, and roses. I sit back, chin resting on my hands, elbows on the table, watching the exchange of merriment. Then, as the sun goes down, I stop by the store, picking up a slightly withered red rose. I pay with the change that I have in my car, the cashier undoubtedly smiling as she thinks I'll be bringing this home for my boyfriend. She hardly pays attention to the tear streaks down my cheeks or the frown creasing my lips. Mostly, she is watching the time and counting the minutes until she gets to clock out and go out to eat with her lover. I take the receipt and the rose, head out to my car and buckle up as I start it. As I roll out of the parking lot, I don't head home but instead take a new route. This is a route that I only take once a year, this day every year to be exact. The rose lays across my lap and I take a few more turns. The whole time my car rolls I think about two days in particular.

The first being the Valentine's day my Uncle called my Mother. The year after my parent's divorce. I was ten years old, crying in the background of the phone. My Uncle, nearly a Father to me most of my life, asks my Mother to hand the phone to me. His voice, slightly rough and deep like most men yet a nice touch of care, drifted over the line into my ear. He asks why I am crying and I explain to him that I didn't have a Valentine and that I didn't get anything for the Holiday. I can still remember the words and tone of voice. It rings like a bell in my head to this very day. "Aww, Honey. I'll be your Valentine." A northern accent heavy on the words. This memory fades away, and another moment of my existence is brought to the front of my thoughts.

My Dad, answering the phone several times that Saturday morning. The door bell rings as I lay on my stomach in the living room, oblivious to the mornings happenings. My eyes were captured into whatever comedy was playing. Several lines stuck out in my mind, as they usually did, and I planned to use them within the next week for my own personal punch lines to different situations. As the door bell echos in the front hallway, I jump to my feet complete curiosity evident on my face. I skip down the hall, just in time to see my Dad come to the door and open it. I see my Mother who had just dropped me and my two brothers a day prior for our visitation. The summer heat rushed in around her and warmed me as I stared at her face. My brothers, a little late to the party, rush down the stairs behind me just as curious as I was. Tears were pouring down my Mother's face, something that didn't catch my attention until after a few moments. This was the perfect time in my head to say something funny to cheer her up. One of the lines from the movie I had been gazing at earlier came to my head, and I chuckled as I spoke and finished with the largest smile I could muster.

I don't know what I was hoping for, but definitely not the response that I ended up with. "What? Did somebody die?" No laughter followed from my Mother, only a new out break of sobs. It was July, so it was quite odd that this is a memory correlate with Valentine's Day. She brought us into the living room of my Father's little Town House. The TV had been turned off just a few minutes ago. We all sat on the floor, for reason's I had been asking about and didn't understand yet. My Dad, oddly enough, was sitting on the couch. I was beginning to get that creepy feeling that crawls up your spine as I waited impatiently for a reason. Everything wasn't like it should of been. Yeah, you've figured it out. But I was ten. I hadn't ever been around death. Never really even thought about it being as naive as a little girl could be. When she said it, the entire room went silent. Sadly enough, it was deathly silent. Creepy. The words had to sink in. Small tears began to slip from my eyes as well as both of my brothers. I looked to them, trying to understand the cruel joke. That's all this was in my head. A cruel joke to get back at me for saying what I said earlier. There was no way my Uncle had died. He was only 36. My brothers tears strengthened. There were so many tears coming down their red faces, their lips pulled taut into a large frown. My Mother's tears began again and I watched as she pulled both the boys' shaved heads to her and hugged them. Next thing I know, she is trying to pull me to her.

A cruel joke. I didn't want to be near her. Not after what she just said. Why would you lie about something like that? I stood, my Dad following suit, and turned away. My Dad, quite concerned at my near lack of emotion at this, tried to convince me to stay. I didn't hear his words. I didn't hear anything. The words were absorbing a lot quicker now. My stomach in knots, I ran up the stairs and slammed my door. I locked it, throwing junk in front of it to block it from opening. I didn't want any disturbances as I did my next actions. I pulled my little pocket knife out from under my mattress. I pull my pen and diary out also, opening to a fresh page. Through blurry eyes, I wrote the last note I planned on. I wrote how much pain it was. It wasn't empty like so many describe. It was pain. No bullet could feel worse. Not knife, no whip. Nothing. The words returned to my head. Did somebody die? Yes, they had. All because I said those words. Life's irony wouldn't of occurred if I hadn't of said those words. My fault. All my fault. All these dark feelings flooded out of my hands in a sloppy writing, and tears fell over them. I threw the little book aside, as well as the pen. I grab the knife as I hear them coming up the stairs. I pull my pants down to my knees, opening the knife up and slashing at my skin. What most would describe as pain, I embraced. The blood escaping only soothing my mind and soul. It was the end. The door, they began to bang on. Yells of, 'Catherine, open up.' and such. Ignored? No, unheard. I continue cutting and letting the blood come out, suddenly wishing I had sharpened the blade prior to the event. It didn't do much damage, and there wasn't that much blood. I pulled my pants up, a zombie like state as I unlocked the door and went back to my bed. I threw the blanket over me and continued to let my tears flood me out.

I press the brakes as I pull up to the curb. Many, many smooth little rocks are buried and left at the surface. Each engraved with something important, I no longer have to read them to find him. I just walk, stepping over a few, holding tightly onto the rose I bought for him. The grass has grown over on the edges and there is a few dead flowers in his little vase. No one came here. It was too painful to do so. It has been seven years now. Seven long years since I was able to tell him 'Happy Valentine's Day'. Yes, he was an Uncle. And there was nothing more than just family love there. And I miss him so much. He always cared.

I pull the old flowers out and toss them aside before putting my own gift to him in. I sit down for a while, before finally laying down on top. I talk to him, knowing he is dead and can't hear me, but it sure makes me feel better. Those two lines still ring in my ears. An odd mixture, but they are the main things I remember. I cry a lot as the sun sets. I scream some too. My car sits at the side of the road, and other cars drive past. I think they may understand, but mostly I'm just not sure. I'd like to forget everything. I'd like to sleep here, right next to him. I'd like to never leave. But as the stars come out and I look at the time, I know it is best to leave. After a long hesitation, I stand back up and return to my car. The head lights come on, and I reluctantly drive away...

So I dedicate this to him. Just like I dedicate my Valentine Days to him. And now you understand why I am in the mood I am in. Once again, I welcome you to the dark thoughts of my mind.