Vise Grip

Hi, so...I'm Jack and I wrote a kinda allegory. Enjoy and tell me if you want me to write more sometime.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, standing over the grave of the one I loved. "I'm so, so sorry..."

"Stop it," I hear a voice say. "It wasn't your fault. You know that."

"No, it was my fault," I say, tightening the grip of my left hand on my right arm to the point of leaving red marks. "I should've done something, anything to save you."

"Please," the voice says. "It wasn't up to you. It was just a thing that was going to happen. I beg of you, stop crying over my demise so excessively. You're preventing me from leaving."

"But I don't want you to leave!" I say frantically. "No, please, never leave me!"

"Stop," the voice says softly. "Let go. You're hurting yourself."

"No I'm not," I say. "I can't be hurting if I don't feel pain."

"Well you're hurting me," the voice pleads slightly. "Let me go. You're holding on so tightly when I should already have gone from you."

I sigh. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Good ending: I let go. We both move on. We remember the good things through memories.

Bad ending: I refuse to let go. I hold on until we're both worn so thin that we turn to dust.

Your choice.