Numb: The Postscript

IX. Three

Three months ago I met her. Three weeks ago she departed. On the day she left, I finally said the three little words that meant so much to both of us.

Étienne hasn't spoken to me in weeks, not since the burial day. Grief has become our enemy. And silence has become our greatest ally. However, the silence can't defeat our mournful sorrows and deep resentment.

I laid on my bed and darkness filled the room. My memories' chronology was in ruin. I couldn't even remember what I did the week, day, or even the hour before I lied there, just staring at the ceiling. The only thing that was implanted in my mind was the burial day.

It kept replaying.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

I kept thinking about it.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

I didn't want to grasp the feeling of loss. Not again. But there was no escaping it.

My mind kept displaying the scenario, the sounds, and the voices:

There she was, in her mahogany casket, with a sheer shroud over her. She was still amazingly beautiful, of course. Her skin glowed and her lips were supple, looking as if she could wake up any moment. And so I waited.

I've been waiting.

I met Jérémie that day. He was rugged, a little taller than I. His grey eyes were dark, dimmer than Noèle's. He tried to approach me with a congenial attitude, but there was no use in hiding his anguish, his pain.

Étienne stood by Miss Margrete. He tried to console her as she wept miserably. His tears settled in his eyes, which were swollen and red. Once the prayers were over, he broke the silence. His voice was hoarse as he wailed. He fell to his knees as her casket was lowered into the sepulcher. Jérémie put a hand on his father's shoulder, and they were stationary as family members departed. I stayed with them. I stared at her grave and the tombstone with NOÈLE BLANCHE BONNAIRE engraved in it. I walked over to it and laid white roses upon the dirt mound. I remember staying there for hours and hours.

My body became numb.

Numb as if ice didn't cool but burned the crevices of my scars and also my senses to feel and emote.

I've lost what I had gained.

I've been running from where I once was.

Not looking back.

Trying to get where I wanted to be.

I made sure no one was going to stop me.

Except myself.

I taunted myself.

I tore off every shred of emotion and feeling I had. Every moral. Every value. Every worth.

I knew I was going to fail. They knew I was going to fail. I was doomed to repeat my mistakes. And end in constant failure.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The monster, my monster, kept growing.

And growing.

And growing.

I then realized that I didn't have a self.

That I didn't have a monster.

Because the monster is me.

And there I lay, confined in this insanity. Back where I started.

--

Ahh~

I'm feeling so horrible, like, I'm crying to myself about Hans. *way too emotionally attached to his character*

Goodness gracious, I just need to chillllll and listen to Love is an Open Door, so I can listen to Santino's heavenly voice that was crafted by butt-naked cherubs.

Wait

What

Thanks baes! ;D