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Cemeteries are a place of peace. Funerals are a bitter nudge towards a future without someone you love.
The ache of losing him is brutal. I don’t miss him, the way you miss a pair of shoes that you grew out of, a memory of a glowing summer, or even a pet you’d lost. I do not miss him. He is missing from me. A vital organ torn from my gut. A severed limb.
I warned them what I would become if they took him from me. Now there is no need to fear the reaper. They should fear the woman who loves him.
“Darling.” He traces the front of his white teeth with his tongue, a starved animal ready to feast. “I’d rid the world of men who breathe the same air as you.”
My lack of a soul wasn’t because of the evil that had infested my mother’s womb or my father’s corrupt DNA. No, I didn’t have one because it belonged to her. I think when we were created, instead of splitting our spirits in half, they gave both of them to her in order to keep them safe. To remind me, when the time was right, that all I am is hers to carry.
Mourning is a difficult thing. It’s a stain that never goes away. The sting of loss fades, but you’re still left with this laceration that doesn’t scar. It just continues to weep, and you accept that. There comes a time when you’ve lost so many people that all you are now is one massive wound. All you can do is bleed for the ones you’ve lost and hope you don’t die of blood loss.
He is my protector, my defender. A connection that will never leave or stray, no matter how it’s tested. It’s a love that stays with me in the quiet nights when I’m trapped in my head.
I’ve never needed to make myself digestible for Thatcher. Never had to curb who I am or be less. I’ve never had to make myself easier to love. He has always swallowed me whole and savored every bite.
