The Hateful Heavy Heart | 18+

27 - Grieving

Ruggiero's hands kneaded intently into my shoulder blades. I closed my eyes and attempted to inhale a steady breath. His hands worked from my shoulders down my back, still damp from my shower. "You can be honest with me, amorina. I know you're hurting," he said aloud.

Inhaling deeply through my nose, I did my best to keep my breathing steady. There was an aching pain in my chest as if a seven-pound weight had been dropped six feet onto my ribcage. I breathed out through my mouth after about ten seconds, trying extremely hard to focus my thoughts on his warm hands on my skin. "I knew it was coming," I told him, my voice a whisper. "'I'm—I'm okay."

The pain that Cleo's passing brought me was one I'd never felt before. I'd experienced an array of difficult situations throughout my lifetime, but this was different than all of them.

Cleo had lived a fruitful life before her fall. It wasn't the loss of her mobility that pushed her into Glendshire, but rather the sickness that took over her life. Her loved ones had turned a cold shoulder to her since she'd been considered a person with disabilities, and altogether, she became a burden in their lives. The loss of her legs established her belief that the world was not made for people who required a little more help.

As she'd told me several times, as an immigrant in America, life could be extremely difficult. It wasn't easy to learn American customs and it wasn't easy to get assistance when one needed it. I was deeply admirable of Cleo's journey and how, despite the adversities she faced, she kept trying. That was, until one day she decided she didn't want to anymore. I couldn't understand wanting to die, but I could understand being tired and above all, desiring rest.

Behind me, Ruggiero sighed. "You don't seem okay, Jace."

Jerking my shoulders away from him, I mumbled, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't analyze me." I tossed my legs over the end of the bed and swiftly stood, grabbing my blue bath towel off of the bed as I did so.

Helplessly, he called after me. "Jace, baby."

With a huff, I rolled my eyes and draped the towel over my right forearm. "I need to get ready for work."

"I don't believe you need to go to work," he disagreed, his tone apologetic.

I turned on my heel to face him. I was somewhere between exasperated and irritated and hot. I tried to ignore my lip twitching. "Why don't I need to go to work?" I asked him, the calmness in my voice a result of great patience. With Ruggiero. With my circumstances. With myself.

Ruggiero studied me with a gaze of sorrow and curiosity. Part of me felt guilty for the way I had been shutting him out in the past few days. In the three days that had passed since Cleo died, I could barely manage to drag myself out of bed. "I just think that it's maybe too early." He ran a hand through his unkempt hair before leaning back on his hands. The cotton fabric of his t-shirt stretched across the expanse of his toned chest.

"I think," I countered sweetly, "that it's bad for me to just sit here and wallow."

"Baby, it hasn't even been a week." His honey eyes pleaded with me. "We can lay in bed together and watch the Kardashians," he tried.

I shook my head. "I don't think so." And though that sounded wonderful, I wouldn't say, he could shove the suggestion up his ass. "I need to get out of this house." Then, feeling bad about the tone I'd used with him, "just to get some air. I want to work today."