Beautiful Graves

by L.J. Shen

The thing about tragedies is, you can never outrun the Big Alone. At some point, it catches up with you. In the middle of the night. When you’re taking a hasty shower. When you roll in bed and the linen is pressed and smooth where your lover should be. The big moments in your life are always experienced in solitude.

They’re not wrong. I have no idea what I’ll do. Because even in the best of times, I’ve always been torn. Between the man I am about to bury. And the man standing behind my back.

“Now I feel guilty for giving you crap,” I say. “Sorry for being an ass in our chat.” “Well, then you’re in luck.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Why?” I frown. “Because I’m an ass man.” I burst out laughing, which never, ever happens anymore.

Ever: It’s me. I’m fine. Loki is fine. Everything is fine. Nora: I don’t believe you. Say something Ever would say so I know that it’s you and not your sadistic capturer trying to throw me off scent because really he killed you and got rid of your body and wants it to decompose before I send out a search party. Have I mentioned that I got Nora into true-crime podcasts? We sometimes spend weekends binge-listening to them in our pajamas, working on fifteen-hundred-piece jigsaws. Ever: Cakes that look like burgers or poop or soccer fields aren’t cute. They’re disturbing. The dissonance between the visual and the taste buds makes the whole eating experience chaotic and unpleasant. I want my cake to look like a cake. Not like a Doritos bag. This is my truth. Thanks for coming to my TED talk. Her answer comes promptly. Nora: Okay, weirdo. See you at home.

the idea of going out there and finding out who I really am is still paralyzing to me. Any person I become will be a person who is a virtual stranger to my mom, and becoming that person would be, in a way, truly and finally letting go of her.