𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

27. what's left? (pt.1.)

T W E N T Y - S E V E N
what's left?

Grief is not a constant, even thing. It's not something you suddenly get over, it doesn't taper off evenly. It is different for everyone, and is individual to each situation.

The mother of a dead two-year-old will have a different experience from the son of a dead one hundred-and-twenty-year-old. But it will hurt them both.

You can rationalise some deaths. Old people that get to the part of life they shit themselves constantly and finally die in their sleep, you can rationalise. They lived a long life, and all that jazz.

Dead teenagers? Not so much.

I find it hurts the most when you see something you would be excited to tell them, whether that be bitching about someone's downfall, or talking about new movies. Or, sometimes, even more stupid shit. When you walk into a random building and have some memory you hadn't thought of since that time when they did something funny. Perhaps it was something you didn't appreciate enough, maybe it embarrassed you, but now, you'd do anything to go back there and live it over again and again.

'I just wish I could tell them XYZ' is something you hear often. It's usually thank you's, or I love you's and it's always something you'd cut off your toes to be able to tell them. Maybe it's even more simple, maybe all you want to do is give them one last hug, or see them once more. Relive one good memory. Something to remember them by.

When my Grandma died every time I'd walk into the local flower shop I could hear her make the same shitty joke about the daisies.

I can't go in there anymore.

Grief is silly. Everyone dies, it's the one thing that you are guaranteed. So why do we get so worked up about something you know will happen? Why can't you just think of the good times, why does your head always pick out the memories where you didn't do enough?

Grief hurts, it makes your throat feel tight and your tongue feel heavy. It makes your chest feel like it's being crushed. It makes you feel sick to your stomach. If you cry your eyes begin to burn and you lose your breath and you could swear you were dying yourself because it hurts so badly.

How can you be in so much pain and not be dying?

I refuse to go to funerals, even family members. I don't want to hear how good they were, I don't want people to tell me how lucky they were to know the person, or how much they loved me. I don't want to see big pictures of them smiling. I don't want to hear the eulogies, or their favourite music. I hate people asking me how I'm doing—not fucking great, Wayne. Enjoy damn sandwiches and fuck off. She didn't even like you, prick.

JJ doesn't bother knocking on the door, it seems like everyone's given up on that common courtesy. What if I'm butt-ass naked?

I guess the only two people who really come into this house, JJ and my mother, have seen me naked a lot of times. It's still demoralising. I should get to decide who sees me naked. And they're risking the biscuit.

"How–?" He asks before fully walking into the room, a room which I spent over an hour cleaning to the point that I think they could operate on the hardwood floors. He walks another step in, shutting the door while looking around. He's looking like he's never seen this room before. "Are you okay?"

I stand up, putting down the jug of water I used to water my plants. I by no means feel good, or even fine, I still feel broken, but I'm beyond caring. As of right now, at least. My emotions are dull, I don't feel happy when I see amusing videos that always elicit at least a smile, I don't feel like dying when I see a picture of Sarah or John B, I don't feel angry at Shoupe for driving them into the storm. The only thing beyond a dull sadness I feel is self-loathing, but even that is muted.