THE FREE FALL ⇘ Bellamy Blake. [1]

| xxiv. PHANTOMS

• •

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR;

PHANTOMS.

• •

        GRIEF IS NOT A THING OF BEAUTY. It is raw, ugly, and gargantuan–a monstrous abyss devoid of anything teachable or uplifting. There's no solace in grief. No peace in the wrenching knowledge that your loved one is gone. The love you hold for them has no outlet anymore—no place to reside—so you bury it deep within, allowing it to carve a home beneath your skin until it inevitably surges forth once more.

        Haven often thought of her mother at the strangest of times. Why did the dull hue of autumn grass remind her of Dahlia's favorite book cover? Why would she catch herself seeking her presence in the flicker of dying lightbulbs Why was it so difficult for her body to accept the irrefutable truth that her mother was gone? It was awful to incessantly search for someone no longer there; it was torturous for her body to do it against her will.

        Grief had made her its puppet in seconds; she resigned to its strings for eternity.

        And now–Orion would, too.

        The enormity of the last twenty-four hours had burdened Haven with an almost insufferable amount of chest pain. It was excruciating to witness the friend she had grown to love so dearly undergo the same trauma that she had. Death was a malevolent thief; if Haven could have swapped places with Orion, she would've done so the moment the Exodus ship crashed into the mountains. But ultimately, she knew that she couldn't.

       She was already living it herself.

       Since then, Haven, Octavia, and Orion remained practically inseparable. Every waking minute had found them joined at the hip. While much of their time was spent silently staring at the ceiling of Octavia's tent, the dim light casting shadows across their weary faces, at least they had each other.

Not all of it was silent, though.

Orion's inconsolable anguish surpassed all expectations within the camp. Not that anyone expected it to be pretty; it was harrowing to behold one of their own unraveling. Her sobs poured ceaselessly, as if she were comprised more of saltwater than blood, until abruptly–she just stopped. It was as if a veil had been lifted, as if the tempest of sorrow had never ravaged her to begin with. In that transformative moment, she transcended her identity as a girl engulfed in pain.

Instead, she was consumed by rage.

Bottles had shattered beneath her touch. Parts of the wall now bore dents brought on by the relentless onslaught of her foot. She lashed out at anyone who dared to intervene–not even Bellamy attempted to confront her wrath. Flames of her fury had incinerated her lively eyes to ash, consuming her from within she as wrestled with the injustice of loss and the cruelty of fate.