Deserving of More

Chapter Fifteen: Diminished With An Audience

The warm mug was a relief to my fingers. Inexplicably cold and aching. I wasn't even sure I wanted the coffee, but the heat it gave off was pleasant. I looked into the liquid and watched the cream swirl and billow slowly through it. I sighed.

My chest felt heavy. Everything was overwhelming. Stupid demons and their symptoms. I was in a dark hole on my own on good days. But now, the light at the top was being snuffed out by the shadow of Mount Veronica, and everything that came with that. Which was a lot. Don't misunderstand- no matter how bleak or dark everything was or seemed, I would never turn my back on this. I'd seen it firsthand. Soldiers who changed their minds about The Resistance. Fence sitters who couldn't decide. Even those who chose to try and play both sides. None of that was me. But sometimes, the darkness was consuming.

I glanced up and looked around Headquarters. It was bustling. Except for me, staring into my rapidly cooling coffee. Soldiers typed away at computer keyboards. The Generals and Grace were gathered on the sofas, talking and occasionally laughing. It was then that I felt it.

I felt alone. In this crowded room. Like there was an unspoken, unseen divider. And I didn't belong on either side.

On one side was the king's inner circle. The Generals. Grace. Family. Friends. I didn't belong over there. I didn't ever really know him. We never met in person. And the chance for any of that was taken away from me, whether it was ever in the cards or not. The grief and pain I felt over his death was nothing compared to theirs. They have love for him that dwarfs mine. And an equivocal amount of grief. And so I never discussed it with them. Kept it to myself. Diminished my feelings. Did I even have a right to claim so much pain? I was unsure. Thus, I kept it locked away. I let it live in the darkness with my demons and let it play amongst the shadows in my psyche. That way, when it came to the surface, I could blame the plague and wave it off some more.

On the other side were the Soldiers. They pulled me in so many directions. I watched them. I saw ones who said they love him, but supported those who hurt and abused him. Gave them so much love they never earned, and didn't deserve. I saw those who said they missed him, but weeks before, professed to be leaving him behind in the previous year. I saw those who bullied those still grieving, including me. Asking why we were still affected. That we shouldn't be grieving someone we didn't know. Told us to stop counting the weeks and months. I saw those who only cared for the Generals as military officials and not as humans; asking when normal procedures would return. As if they had any idea about the future.

At the other end of the spectrum were those who praised me. Who had glimpses of how close I possibly am to the inner circle, and tell me how much I deserve that proximity in return for my years of devotion and loyalty. That my love, and subsequently my grief, were obviously evident. Cara had an analogy for it.

"It's like you have this backpack," she says often, "And it's got his name on it. So, everyone can see."

Sometimes that analogy was a comfort. And sometimes I imagined the weight of that backpack dropping me backwards like a distressed turtle.

Was my pain heavier than theirs, then? I didn't know. Maybe it was; maybe it wasn't. Either way, I would never make anyone feel inferior or less than by waving my grief around like some kind of banner of martyrdom. I diminished my feelings around them as well. Lest I come off as dramatic or selfish or rude. I could never do that to them.

Many of them were also unaware of The Resistance, and the heavy truth that comes with it. Nor the weight of hiding the unbearable.

So many praised me for my writing. Telling me how much they're moved by my words. How much they related. My openness leaving them in awe. But was I really open? Given how much I held back, bit my tongue, sat on my fingers, I doubted it. Like the self-harm that was part of my illness, it was only on the surface. I only bled enough to know that I was bleeding. The real pain was left untouched, at a depth I wasn't certain I wanted to dig to.