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.

And I—well, I am no longer a man. I am aftermath. I am ruin itself. And the aftermath doesn’t heal. It haunts. Ruins do not heal. I am nothing, yet I still breathe.

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 …

If I disappeared tomorrow, would the world just … keep turning like I was never here?

But sometimes, when I let myself think too long, I ache for a version of me that never got to be. I don’t need statues. I don’t need my name etched in gold. But I want someone to read my words one day and pause. Just for a moment. And think, She was here. I close my eyes and whisper to the rain, “Let that be enough.”

Present How could I not want a gift that you gave Me, even if it arrived in pieces? Glue them together in gold so I save The story of those imperfect creases. Wonder with glee what is wrapped up inside. It’s the thought though that’s truly the treasure. A present speaks loudly what you never hide. That your feelings for me are past measure. Why is it then that you look rather sad? You gave me your heart. I know it’s broken. Enough for me that it came from you, Dad. In my chest beats a love that’s unspoken. Carry your memory in this cage of bone. The heart we share means that I’m always home.

“The heart betrays them all, Kane. Live long enough, and the heart will break. Metaphorically, perhaps. Literally, quite surely. They all bend to Time in the end.”

Now, until I return, you be a good girl and stay. Right. There.” Oh. Oh. He did not. I feel heat rise in my face—not from fear, but from rage.

“Why would someone want to trap an octopus?” “Have you ever eaten fresh octopus?” “I don’t eat anything that can be mistaken for a pig’s anus.” “Don’t know what you’re missing,” I reply dryly. “Meh, we all gotta live by a code, Kane. That’s part of mine.” “You really haven’t lived.”

“If I untie you, are you going to behave?” “No,” she replies candidly. Well, at least she’s honest.

“You think Poe was melodramatic,” she continues, voice softer now, more tired. “But you don’t get it. His writing wasn’t about death; it was about the fear of it. About the inevitability of loss. How grief wraps around your ribs and squeezes until there’s nothing left of you. How it turns you into a ghost long before you die.” She exhales sharply, her fingers tightening around the book. “I get Poe. I am Poe. A person trapped in the waiting room of her own demise.”

“My love,” she murmurs, kneeling beside him, “you were the greatest gift I was ever given.” His breath hitches, like some part of him knows she’s still there. “You were my home,” she continues, her voice tender, steady, even as the weight of finality settles around her. “And I know you think you’ll never be whole without me, but you will be. Not today, not tomorrow … but someday. And I will be so proud of you when you do.” A single tear slips down his face, and she smiles, attempting to brush it away, but her fingers turn to wisps against his unaltered cheek. He does not move, nor does he stop his soft sobbing. “Thank you for loving me,” she whispers. “For all the days we were given. For making me laugh when I didn’t think I could. For keeping your promises, even the little ones.”

Because I cannot be hurt again if I do not open myself up. Because the poets and romantics got it wrong. It is better to have never loved at all. Because without feeling, there is no pain, and a world without pain works pretty fucking well for me. I think all of that and say none of it. Rue fills the silence as she closes the space between us. “Everyone deserves to be touched, Kane. Everyone deserves to feel.”

“Even in the face of having learned what comes after life, I still contend there is nothing quite so magical as a book. Nothing as powerful as a story.”

Because Rue feels like the last page of a book I never want to finish. And if she’s going to leave this world, then I want to be the one to help her write an epic final chapter.

Death is a certainty. Fate comes for us all. But the when remains a mystery so we can live free in our moments without fear or foreboding. Kane might have saved me, but he doomed me in the same breath. Gave me back time in such an exacting way that it makes enjoying the seconds of it nearly unthinkable.

“Because everyone deserves to die with dignity. Everyone should be given the grace to end their life, surrounded by the ones that love them.”

“I don’t want to forget you,” he says, voice small and shaking. “I don’t want you to forget me either.” “I never could,” I say, and I mean it. “You’re inked into my story now.” “I don’t think I want to be here anymore,” he says. “Don’t feel like I need to be.” I nod, even as my throat tightens. “Knowing you, feeling like I belong, not to somewhere, but to someone—I haven’t felt that since Sophia. I forgot what it felt like. You made me remember, Rue. Made me feel real. Like that bunny did for a time. And you set me free.”

“All I do is listen.” “And it would seem there’s more power in that simple act than you will ever know.”

“I’m not afraid of endings,” I say, facing him fully. “You should be,” he replies instantly. “I’m afraid of not being remembered.” “We’re all forgotten in the end, Rue. Merely a question of how long it takes.”

“Love is for the weak, Kane. As you have now become painfully aware. And I,” I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a thread of warning, “am anything but weak.” He doesn’t flinch. “Love is the opposite of that,” he says with a pestering sadness in his tone. “Love is why, D. Whatever the question is, love is the answer.”

“Spoiler alert though: these stories all end with a TFE.” “Qu’est que çe?” “A tragic fucking end, Kane. It’s like an HEA, but you know … not.”

How can a single moment be the best and worst of my entire meaningless existence? Nothing has burned brighter or stung more sharply than this moment. Nothing has ever lifted me this high while simultaneously slamming me so hard into the cruel ground. Nothing sings and stings with as much potency as Rue Chamberlain’s unknowing declaration of her love to me. She talks about me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her. But I am not. I failed her. The room feels like it’s pressing in.

Rue’s Lament What begins in the light ends in the dark. Heated wax melting into memory. Liquid pools formed from that initial spark. Every wick burns out eventually. Fear not the candle’s smoky finale Celebrate instead the way it burned bright Tendrils of grey-black smoke, the last sally Of a flame that flickered with all its might. The chandler crafted with wick and tallow Each piece meant to serve an earthly purpose So, burn your candles, lest they lie fallow Trophies to obsolescence for the corpus. Heat, light, and power dancing off the tip. Snuffed out, brief candle. Sweet life, what a trip.

‘It is an ever-fixed mark.’ ” “ ‘That looks on tempests and is never shaken,’ ” I continue the line with a stone-like set to my voice. I square my shoulders and face my reaper. “So, bring on the fucking storm, Asher.”

“Love never ends, Kane. It’s the only thing more enduring than death. That doesn’t vanish just because she did.” “I don’t know.”