Grim

by D.J. Krimmer

Grief is not sorrow. Sorrow is a guest who will leave. Grief is a parasite—it latches on, it feeds, it remakes. It is a rot that eats away at you and leaves only a husk. It is the weight pressing down on my chest with every breath, my dark shadow beside me, whispering I will never be whole again.

What waits beyond the waking life? What sits past the veil of life’s fleeting breath? What lies beyond? Tempus ut de. Time to find out …

“Your father might have treated you like a princess, Rue Chamberlain,” he says as he traces my cheek with his thumb, “but I intend to make you a queen.”

Supra nostram potestatem.”

“‘But the future must be met, however stern and iron it be.’ ”