Phoenix Hearts

Denial

"To deny one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul."

-Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

Caitlin

I don't believe that there are "stages" to grief. You feel grief as soon as something catastrophic occurs, it hits you like a car. That's the thing about death; it doesn't need time to sink in. It hits you immediately. It shatters you, leaves you breathless. I do believe, however, that shock slows down this impact. It creates a standstill, a sort of limbo between your past and your reality. And when this initial shock wear off, a mess is left behind. Pieces to pick up of your former self. You never recover from a trauma, you just jam those broken pieces back together, leaving cracks and holes in what you once were.

Perhaps that's why I haven't cried yet. Standing in front of my brother's open casket, in the only black dress I own, you'd think I'd be sobbing, but no. A single tear is yet to be shed. Maybe it's because I embraced the shock that came with his death like a warm blanket, shielding me from the sadness of those surrounding me. The crowd of people around me was suffocating, a sea of black that I was drowning in.

As I stood still in this storm, everything rushed on around me. Without me. Even my mom didn't acknowledge me, her gaze adeptly avoiding mine. Her tiny frame shook with every gasp of air she took in between heart breaking sobs. Dad stood stone still next to her, holding her so tight you'd think they were glued together. I hid behind them, a bystander in all of this chaos, my hair shielding my eyes from seeing the reality in front of me. I stood beside my cousin Tris, clutching her as she cried, being careful not to touch the green cast on her arm. Her arm was shattered from the impact and was almost as close to my brother as I was. I may as well have killed a part of her in the crash too.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Jane," they said.

"Hold on Mike, you all will get through this."

Words to this effect echoed all around me, meaningless and empty. Nobody knows Duncan like I do- or I guess I should say knew.

It isn't until I hear a familiar voice say, "Oh, Caitlin, honey. How are you?" that my eyes shifted from their fixed spot on the ground. Looking up, I met sad, brown eyes. A lady stood in front of me, around my mom's age, with short brown hair. She gave me a weak but soft smile, her eyes crinkling around the edges but filled with sorrow.

Although her voice sounds familiar, I don't recognize her, and I manage out a barely audible, "fine." She steps closer and lifts her arms to embrace me, but I stand still and don't return the hug. Stepping back, the lady sees the confusion on my face and seems surprised.

"I see, you don't remember me. My name is Emma, Emma Jackson. You can just call me Emma. My family used to live next door to you, and you and my son Parker used to play together all the time before we moved to Chicago."

"I'm sorry. I don't really remember you."

"Well, it's been about ten years since I last saw you. I was even at the hospital when your brother was born." At the mention of Duncan, Emma's face contorted, like something sour was in her mouth, and she seemed like she was trying to hold back tears.

"So much happens in ten years. Look at you all, grown up now." Emma's eyes scan my body, like trying to find the missing pieces of a little girl underneath the mess I was. Her gaze lingered on my hand and face. Surely, bandages over my face and dark bruises scattered across my body weren't a part of the same Caitlin she remembered from all those years ago. When Duncan was still a little baby, unscathed from this world. Full of life and potential.

Once again, dark thoughts take over my mind, and my gaze drops back to the ground. Sensing the change in my mood, Emma steps back.

"I should go to your parents now, but I'm genuinely sorry for everything. I consider your family as my own, so if you ever need to talk or get away for a while, just know that I'm in town for the next few days."

Right, let me spend my winter break pouring my heart out to a person who's practically a complete stranger to me. That's definitely high on my to-do list after I bury my brother. Trying to restrain myself from speaking in a bitter tone, I squeak out a weak "Thank you" before Mrs. Jackson turns to my mom.

I see them fall into each other's arms, long lost souls that have finally met after years. I can only stomach the first few minutes of their soppy tear filled reunion and reminiscing about my brother before I turn on my heel and make my way out of the funeral home. I can see my dad's head turn towards me from the corner of my eye as I make my way through the door, but he doesn't try to stop me. Why would he? I don't deserve to be there. I've already done enough to our family. There's no point in hurting others more by having a murder attend their victim's funeral

I wait outside while the service proceeds, the cold nipping at my legs and burning the wounds spread across my body that I had come to ignore. It isn't until a trickle of people start to filter out the doors that I know when the funeral ends. People rush to their cars in an attempt to escape for the freezing Michigan weather, but I stay in place until I see the last of the crowd leave, and my parents emerge among them. My dad comes to my side and extends one hand towards me as if reaching up in a side hug, but last minute he seems to change his mind and rubs his hands across his face instead. Like trying to shake off a bad nightmare.

"Ready to go?" He doesn't attach "kiddo" to the end of his sentence like he usually does when talking to me. It sounds foreign after being addressed like that for so many years, but at least one of my parents can manage to look at me, even if it is with an agonizing expression. I nod my head, but I'm not ready to leave. I don't think I'll ever be ready to leave Duncan behind. I'll never be ready to wake up on Saturday mornings without feeling my bed bounce up and down with the weight of an eager ten year old wanting to watch cartoons. I'm not ready to leave, but nonetheless I follow my dad to the car, the waves of my dark storm churning rapidly, pulling me down, making it heavier to walk with every step.