Grieving: Parts One to Three

Part One: Fervent Rainfall

Rain fell over the miserable sight with an unrelenting downpour. My jacket, once pristine in its inky blackness was soaked, my shirt as well, and I could even feel the cold precipitation on my skin below. I had always loathed the rain, it reminded me of when I was little. It was always cold, the wind making it all the more unpleasant, and the horrible silence it forced the city into. People stayed indoors when it rained, as though droplets of water would rob them of something they held dear. It was absurd to hate the rain, but I had more reason than most to hate it.

Hate… It was an emotion I’m unfamiliar with, and in truth, I never felt much, for I have no reason to. Being emotional over any situation simply seems irrational, and so I keep myself in check, my heart under lock and key. If someone saw what laid behind that door I kept so firmly shut, what would they think? They might pity me, and I’m loathed to see the looks of sympathy in their ignorant eyes. However they might instead merely think of my problems as insignificant in comparison to their own, and that is an unforgivable crime.

Without having realised I had closed them, I open my eyes and stared into the morose scene before me. A large, rectangular hole had been dug and two rows of people stood across from me, staggered so that they could watch the proceedings, as though a funeral was a spectacle one had to view no matter. A similar scene could be found on the near side of the hole, wherein I stand second to the priest who gassed on about facts that everyone knew. “… A kind and loving woman with a heart too large for her body,” the man spoke as I paid attention once more, though drifted from his words after a short relapse of attention.

This was how funerals always are: nothing of the bad times were mentioned, only the good parts, though… Casting my gaze to the coffin which was suspended over the hole, I admit to myself that the one inside had so few faults, and were truly grace and love given human form in life. Torn from my sister and I… The aforementioned sibling stood at my side, closest to the preacher. Her form is hunched and stiff as she keeps her gaze fixed upon the muddy ground at our feet. I want to reach out and take her still hand in my own, and tell her that I was here for her, but no such kindnesses are here for me to use.

“And so we say goodbye to a loving mother and friend, Lauren Marie Depaix. May God’s grace lift her to the heavens and give her eternal peace.” The words were spoken, my chest constricts, and I felt my fists tighten at my sides. No, it’s not right that she’s being put in the ground: she needed to be here, to smile at us in the morning, to tell me she was proud of me and all I had done. She couldn’t leave.

A pale and slender hand next to my own reached forward, “Please, don’t,” my sister Jacquelyn whispers brokenly, and those gathered shoot pained looks at the girl, many with tears in their own eyes. “Mom,” she croaks as she stumbled forward, before stumbling and coming to an abrupt rest, sprawled over the coffin. “Don’t go!” She screams into the smooth wooden surface, and her nails scraped noisily against it.

The steady fall of rain became deafening as those gathered simply watch the sixteen year old girl weep hoarsely over the coffin, none capable of summoning the courage to tell her to let her own mother be buried. My mother had died of lung cancer after a three year battle, and though many had a defaming thought that she had smoked herself into a grave, it was far from the truth. Father had been a smoker before he left her when we were little kids, and apparently his legacy was a slow developing cancer that eventually killed her. Jacquelyn tore her gaze from the coffin to look at me, and once more I feel a lump develop in my throat. “Vic, don’t let them do this to her!” She begs me, and I can only look away, barely willing tears to not start flowing. “Don’t ignore me,” she further pleads, before simply slumping back onto the haunches of her legs and allowing the casket to be lowered in.

I step forward then, and place it on her shoulder. She doesn’t seem to notice for a long moment, but eventually, with bloodshot and puffy eyes, Jacquelyn looks up at me and placed her hand over mine, her fingers cold and trembling as she laces them with mine. We stand there like that for what feels like hours, and was indeed it is likely that long. Cousins, uncles, aunts, and a grandparent all come to us, gently encouraging us to move on, as though simply because our mother was in the ground it was all behind us.

It was grandma, mom’s mother, who empathises best, and I can feel a choked sob escape my throat ever so silently as she, the last to leave, save ourselves, places a kiss on the gravestone erected to mark our mother’s final resting place. No mother should ever have to bury her children, and this woman was subject to such a tragedy. She tells us to come to her place for as long as we wanted, and I know I will make sure Jacquelyn goes.

I need time to myself; this hole in my chest is only getting bigger as I try to be strong for her. “Is she really gone?” She asks me, evidently still in disbelief over the horrid affair. I only nod, words still seeming too dangerously powerful and thus have the ability to send me into hysterics myself. With a mumbled word of encouragement, little more than a noise from my throat in reality, I usher her up to stand.

Truly, Jacquelyn is a very pretty girl: long blonde hair, vibrant jade eyes and with her mother’s slender figure, she is often the target of her classmate’s less than honourable intentions. But now? Her hair is muddied and askew, hanging awkwardly over her shoulder and down her arm, her vibrant eyes dull from crying and her makeup, once pristinely put together, had run down the length of her face. “Go to grandma,” I speak as evenly as I can, refusing to look her in the eyes and see the hurt and betrayal I was putting there, “She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

She lets out a huff of confusion, “And you?” She inquires of me, asking why I should be alone and our grandmother not. I only shake my head and said no more. Minutes passed as we stand there, her question unanswered, my mind elsewhere. Eventually, she merely sighs, ceasing her staring at me, and walks toward the waiting station wagon owned by our grandmother. “Don’t make us wait too long,” She instructs me as she left my side.

I nod and speak: “I won’t, I promise.” With those words, my voice cracks miserably on the final word, and I only usher her away with a wave of my hand, dismissive and cool. I can’t let my mask break in front of her, because if it did, she would fall apart anew. I can’t do that to her. Jacquelyn deserves to be happy, and if the price for that was this pain in my heart? That was a price I would happily bear for her sake. The vehicle behind me rumbles as its engine comes to life before, with a creak of brakes, drives away, leaving me alone in the somehow deafening silence.

I can hear her voice in my head, ‘My handsome boy,’ she’s praising me for getting into the state university, and it’s breaking my heart, ‘You’ve made your mother so proud!’ She sounds so happy, even though she’s laying in bed, too weak to stand. She reaches out to take my hand, and I grab it, needing her warmth, but finding only cool skin against my own. The memory fading, I feel the warmth of tears trickling down my face, “Please, don’t go,” I whisper into the rain, choking back a sob, “Tell me you’re proud of me, one more time…” I beg her grave, stumbling forward and falling to my knees in the freshly turned dirt.

Mud seeps up my pants and into my shoes, but I don’t care. I reach forward, grazing my fingers over the indented writing of her name, “Mom,” I whisper to it, “I…” I can hold it back no longer, the tears already having begun to flow when that memory came. Buckling forward, I hack forward a sob, shuddering weakly as misery takes me. My throat burns with pain, my eyes are blurred, and my body feels weak from the exertion that it is to cry. “Who will wake Jacky up for school, now?” I ask her grave between my weeping, “You know how she likes to sleep in!” Leaning back and looking into the sky, I grieve noisily, my actions hoarse and uncouth.

Normally I would be humiliated to act so emotionally in public, but the tightness in my chest isn’t going away and crying feels good. I want to feel her arms around me, like when I was a little boy and I’d scrape my knee or elbow. She’d hug me, stroke my hair and tell me I’d be alright, that I was her brave little boy and that nothing could hurt me for long. My body feels weaker by the moment as the rain soaks my hair back, and streams over my sopping clothing. With an involuntary shudder against the cold, I collapse to my side, lying beside my mom’s grave.

Part Two: Foreign Ceiling

When I woke up, it wasn’t raining anymore. My senses were dull, but I could tell that I was lying in a bed, with cotton sheets pulled up to my shoulders. The hum of a fluorescent light is somewhere above me, and a clock is ticking nearby, though both of these things are more annoying than anything. My head is throbbing and I can’t seem to remember why my throat feels as though it’s on fire. Opening my eyes, I stare into an unfamiliar wall before rolling onto my back and staring at an equally foreign ceiling. ‘Where am I?’ I ask silently. Letting my head fall to the other side, I can see that, at the very least, I’m not in a hospital. Though that isn’t really comforting, because it means I’m either at my grandmother’s house for some reason, or a stranger has picked me up after I passed out… But from what?

Lifting the covers off myself, I can see that I’m wearing nothing but my underwear, though nothing seems askew, so I can assume that whoever found me didn’t have any sort of perverted intent. Maybe they wanted to use me in some sort of bargain? Trade me for a couple thousand dollars and escape to another country? I’ve read about people doing that, but it seems unlikely, given the city I live in. Disregarding such things, I shift into a seated position, running a hand over my face, feeling a foreign puffiness around my eyes, and it’s then that I remember why I have a horrible headache, sore throat, and puffy eyes

Mom died.

The memory causes my chest to tighten considerably, and I curl a fist over my pale flesh, squeezing my eyes shut. I’ve cried enough, it’s time to be strong again, but still… ‘I always tell people about my genius boy,’ my mom’s voice echoes in my mind, and I close my eyes ever tighter, refusing to allow any more tears to fall. “I won’t,” I whisper to myself, but my body had other ideas. Slipping back under the covers, I pull them to my chin like a child, ‘Pitiful’ I think, chiding myself for being so pathetic. ‘Take care of your sister, Victor,’ her words sound in my mind like a trumpet.

Those were some of the last words she had spoken to me, her voice so frail, her skin grey and pierced with countless needless and tubes. Her hair had greyed from the sickness that took her so slowly, and she looked so small and weak. I never cried in front of her, but when she said those words I remember after I left the room, I punched the wall until my hand bled. It wasn’t fair, it isn’t fair. She shouldn’t have died; her husband walked out on her when the cancer he gave her became known, leaving her with two kids that she had no means of caring for. She should have lived a long, happy life, full of grandkids, handmade birthday cards, her kids proudly displaying degrees and getting successful jobs.

Turning toward the bare wall I woke up staring at, I let the tears fall, crying quietly into the flat pillow that somewhat supports my head. I jump and scurry toward the wall when I feel a hand on my shoulder, before turning around in my lying position and face the assaulter. A young man with short, messily parted black hair and a pair of alarmed hazel eyes stares at me worriedly. If at the very least, my captor is relatively harmless looking, so I can probably overpower him if need be. “I-I’m sorry,” he starts, his voice quiet and apologetic, “I didn’t mean to startle you, you just looked really sad, is all…” He trails off, a dusting of crimson coming to his face.

Why he’s embarrassed is beyond me, considering I’m the one who’s laying in a stranger’s bed in my underwear crying, but I let it go and thank him for breaking my thoughts from my mother. Drying my eyes off with the back of my hand, I sit up once more. Feeling rather self-conscious about the fact that I’m almost naked, I pulled the covers up my stomach somewhat, giving him a quizzical look. “Sorry about the, uh… Clothes, thing. I had my roommate undress you for me; your suit was completely soaked and really muddy. I was cleaning it when I thought I hear something from this room and-“

I clear my throat, cutting off the other male’s inane rambling, “It’s okay,” I say, my voice sounding hoarse, “I’m not mad.” Seeming greatly relieved at such, he relaxes his posture, and looks around the room awkwardly, waiting for me to say something more. Realising I had completely forgotten such, I look to him: “And… thank you.” I dip my head in gratitude, and I can hear him shift his stance, suddenly quite aware of his surroundings. “Anyone could have picked me up out there, I’m glad you’re not some convict or pervert.” Looking up to find him looking incredibly uncomfortable, I try my hand at lightening the mood, and quirk a brow slowly as I speak in a mock worried tone: “You’re not a prisoner or a rapist… right?”

He blushes once more, and my brows knit slightly; he seems to get flustered quite easily. Granted I’m little better when it comes to emotional states. He did find me passed out next to my mother’s grave, after all… “No no, nothing like that!” He blurts out abruptly, shaking his hands in front of himself quickly, denying the accusation completely. “I was, well, you see…” Looking to the dresser I only notice then next to the doorway, he looks to a pile of neatly folded clothing, and from my vantage point I think it’s a pair of jeans, a beige sweater and a pair of black socks. “Tell you what, you get dressed, I’ll make some tea, and we can talk. Sound good?” With an innocent smile, he grabs the pile of clothing and places it on my bed cautiously. With a nod from me, he sheepishly smiles once more and exits the room, leaving me to my own devices.

He closes the door softly behind himself, and after a moment, I push the sky blue sheets off my person and press my bare feet against the floor below. The hardwood was cool and smooth, and after assuring that I have my balance, I stand, and my back pops in defiance of my actions. Twenty three years old and with a popping back, I’m quite sure I’ll be a hunched old man by the time I’m fifty. Mom always says that I… The thought quietly dies in my mind as I remember once more that she doesn’t say anything anymore, she can only have said things now.

Because she’s gone. Forever. The tightness in my chest returns and I fight at it with all my composure, which unfortunately at this current time is rather minimal. Deciding to focus on something else, I move to the beach-wood dresser, which seems to be older than I am, given the worn edges and chipped surface. Moving past its worn exterior, I separate the pile of clothing into the shirt, pants and socks. Unfolding the pants, I measure them against myself, finding the faded jeans to be almost the perfect size, if not about an inch short. Pulling the pants on, I find that my balance feels off, though I chalk it up to the fact that I was asleep in a rainstorm and probably am developing a nasty fever that I’m too distracted to feel.

Looking to the far wall, I can see that the sun is setting, and my eyes widen at that fact. The funeral had been around noon; how long have I slept? Do Jacquelyn and grandma know I’m okay? They’re probably worried sick. I’ll have to call them once I find my phone which the young black haired man probably has. Rubbing at my pounding head, I groan in pain, abruptly wishing for painkillers or for the sun to set and leave the world much darker. Slipping the strangely oversized shirt over my head, I pull on the socks and open the door to the room I had been staying in.

Part Three: False Peace

Outside of the room is a narrow hallway which is comprised of four doors, including the one I’m standing in. Across from me is a washroom, and down the hall to my right are two sets of closed doors; likely the rooms of the man who had found me and the roommate he mentioned. At the end of the hall is a narrow window which looks over the sprawling graveyard far below. ‘Not much of a selling point,’ I think glibly to myself, I turn left, avoiding inviting painful thoughts to come to bear and head down the length of the room I had exited into a more open area.

A wide set of sliding glass doors leads onto a balcony which, looks over a busy street and other apartment complexes, and closer to me, a worn looking leather couch, widescreen TV and lounge chair are arranged. To the right is a circular glass dining table with four chairs surrounding it, and a bouquet of lilies in the centre. To my direct right is a bank of cabinets, a yellowed fridge, a matching and equally old oven and cooktop, and finally a much newer looking microwave situated next to the stove. The walls were adorned with various pictures of an unfamiliar looking woman, the man I had already met, along with various friends and people I suspected were family. Knick knacks of all sorts accompanied the pictures and gave the small apartment a homey feeling. The sight of such worn in comforts seemed to relax my oddly tense chest as I look around for my benefactors.

Strangely, though, I find no one in the immediate vicinity. An electric kettle rumbled quietly as it boiled water, and a set of two white teacups and saucers were set out with teabags seated inside, awaiting the needed water to complete the drink. Next to them, a squeezable bottle of honey and a dish of sugar. Smirking a little, I can’t help but think it all looks like it belongs to an old lady, not a pair of twenty-something year olds. Feeling carpet under my feet as I enter the living space, I can hear voices from the balcony. Venturing towards the sliding doors, I focus my hearing on the voices which seemed very close, but just out of sight.

Having listened to many of my mother’s phone calls to my father without being caught, I pretended to busy myself by looking over their various pictures and pieces of art, such as it could be called, as I eavesdropped. A young woman was speaking calmly, though her demeanor was strained by undertones of concern: “Look I get that you felt bad for him and all, but you can’t just pick someone up from a graveyard and take them home. He’s not some kitten you found in a box next to a barbershop!” She scolded whom I suspect was my self-appointed saviour, before falling silent and awaiting his response.

He sounds as flustered talking to her as he did to me, so at the very least it wasn’t I who unnerved him – though it’s equally possible everyone unnerves him, too. “I couldn’t just leave him sprawled out next to a grave! It broke my heart to see him like that. Look, he’s awake now, and I made sure to take his phone out of his pants pocket so I didn’t wreck it in the wash. He can call his family and tell them he’s okay, now quit worrying, you’re giving me greys.” The young man chided his roommate playfully, to which she only groaned in annoyance.

Casting my gaze to my right to see them walk around a corner of the balcony, which I surmise probably connects to another balcony adjoined to one of the bedrooms, I feign innocence as I look over a particularly large photograph of my benefactor and an older man with similar bright, gleeful eyes, though his hair appears to be graying as opposed to the younger of the two. The sliding door opens and I turn to face them, my expression as calm as I can make it, given the fact that I probably look as good as I feel, which is to say I look terrible. “Oh, you’re up and around!” The raven haired man says, sounding pleasantly surprised.

His counterpart, a short woman looking to be a few years younger than me, rolls her eyes, exasperated, and steps past him to offer me her hand in greeting. “I’m sorry for his behaviour, Roy’s a scatterbrained school-girl on his good days,” she smirks wryly over her shoulder at her nonplussed male roommate. Taking her hand in my own, she shakes it with surprising strength, “I’m Lauren, it’s nice to meet you.” My hand stiffens around hers at the mention of her name, and I can feel my eyes widen. Releasing her hand from my now still grasp, she peers up at me, worry in her deep brown eyes as she pushes equally chocolate locks over her ear. “Is everything okay…?” She speaks, her voice laden with concern.

Once more, I can hear mom’s voice in my mind, this time, though, it was a memory from less happy times. ‘Victor you cannot keep doing this!’ She snapped at me one morning as she hung up the phone on the wall. The school had called and told her I was suspended, and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that day as to why they had suspended me. ‘You can’t bully the other kids like this! Demeaning them because they’re not as smart as you? What has gotten into you?’ She wasn’t angry, and frankly she had never really been angry. She looked at me that morning when I was in grade ten with those sad eyes that Jacquelyn has: they were full of disappointment. She was disappointed in me. ‘I had to!’ I yelled at her, and with my fists clenched at my sides I told her why: ‘They were bullying that new girl, the one who doesn’t speak English well. They told her she was dumb because she couldn’t spell school. So I told them why they were idiots and why their existence was just a burden on society. It’s not my fault they couldn’t take what they dished out.’ She had calmed, then, evidently not having learned the full story from the school.

Nevertheless mom had lectured me the entire ride to the school, adamant that I not miss a day just because I was standing up for another student. Granted, she was never happy about how I stood up for her, but… That was mom, she’s… she was so proud of me, even when I messed up. Reality comes rushing back and, seeing that I have fallen silent for some time, I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing. My mother’s name is… Well, it was Lauren. It just surprised me is all.” Seeming to understand the ramifications of my word, she avoids my stare, running a hand down the length of her hair, nervously spooling a few locks around her finger. The tension in the room is broken by the click of the electric kettle nearby, and the young woman looks to it, relieved.

“I’ll get that,” Roy looks to be before going after her, but she stops him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Don’t worry, you boys get acquainted, I’ll get the tea ready before I head out for work.” She assures us in a chipper tone before turning away and pouring the steaming water into the two cups. Returning my attention to the hazel eyed man, he nervously looks away. Deciding that, both for his sake and my own throbbing head, I take a seat on the old couch, and he quickly follows suit. Silence encompasses us both as I fail to bring any words to bear and all-the-while he seems more interested in the light drumming he had commenced on his knees. Another tense moment passes before the young woman reappears with teacups seated upon saucers in hand and hands them to us. “Wow, riveting conversation you two. I could barely keep up!” She chirps sarcastically, and receives a flustered look from her roommate. “Tell you what, here’s an icebreaker. Roy works as a freelance artist and pays for his part of the rent with commissions and whatnot.” Slowly pointing a finger at me, and draws out her words slowly: “And go,” before disappearing down the hall and into one of the rooms.

Roy looks to me like a child to their parent when they want a snack at the drugstore, and I relent, thanking his roommate for the tension relieving nonsense. “I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself,” I admit, a tone of surprise escaping my normally guarded self. Extending a somewhat unsteady hand to him, he takes it in his own, and I can’t help but feel surprised at how eerily warm it is. The last person who touched my hand was Jacquelyn, and hers was cold from the coffin of our mother. Once again, I can feel my heart thump painfully in my chest, and I bit down on my cheek to suppress any emotional outbursts. “My name is Victor Depaix. Most people call me Vic, for some reason.” My sight drifts out into the rapidly darkening streets, and I return my attention to my benefactor once more. “Thank you again for taking me into your home like this. It was very kind.”

My words are honest and I’m quite honestly a little glad to hear that I can sound grateful for once, as opposed to passive and bored. Roy smiles once more, a sight that seems to soothe me for some reason. I can’t help but find that his welcoming demeanor is familiar, strangely so, as though he reminded me of my mother. “Well it’s nice to meet you Vic, though to be honest I wish we had met under better conditions.” Having gleaned the tragedy that had seen me collapse next to a freshly dug grave, he places his other hand over mine, “I’m truly sorry for your loss, really… I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but if there’s anything I can do to help… just ask, alright?”

Nodding once, I retract my hand, and let my fingers graze the edge of the saucer I hold in my hands before lifting the teacup to my lips and sipping lightly. It’s certainly bitterer than I expected, but it the flavour is inviting and it has its own unique appeal. At the mention of my mother, I stiffen in my seat, wishing he hadn’t brought it up. The sound of hurried footfalls sounds and I see Lauren rush down the hallway, buttoning up a white blouse and tucking it into a green, knee length skirt. From her garb I can guess she’s either a flight attendant or a waitress. The latter seems more likely, however, and so I nod at her. “Thank you for the tea and your hospitality,” I speak calmly, and she smiles a wide, happy smile; the first I had seen from her.

“You’re very welcome, and before I forget, your phone’s on the TV stand in front of you, in case you didn’t see it. You might want to give your family a call, tell them you’re okay. Roy and I can’t afford a new door if the cops bust this one down!” She calls out as she closes the aforementioned port to their apartment closed behind her. Casting my gaze to my phone situated next to the TV mounted upon its stand, I stand up, teacup in hand, and unlock it, only to find six missed calls. Surmising she was right, my eyes widen in surprise that it wasn’t my sister, as I had suspected, who called me, but instead my grandmother.

“Give me one moment, Roy,” I ask and he nods, content to sip at his tea and watch me curiously. Dialing grandma’s number, I silently thank my past self for buying her a phone for her birthday last year, since it’s come in handy on today of all days. The phone rings and I can feel a point of nervousness build up in my chest, though I ignore it, determined to not allow my unbottled emotions to suddenly rule my life. The phone gives a light click, indicating she had answered, and I spare no time in speaking: “Grandma? It’s me, Vic. Sorry I didn’t answer the phone, I-“ I pause, and frown deeply at the harried nature of her tone.

“Victor, sweetheart, you need to get down to the hospital!” She tells me urgently, her voice hoarse and full of worry. “Grandma, what happened?” I demand, concern evident in my voice, “Are you hurt?” I curse myself for assuming the spritely old woman had fallen to her age, though she doesn’t’ seem to notice as she responds. “I’m fine, but it’s Jacky… When she came home with me, she…” The woman’s voice cracks with sadness, and now panic is flooding me, “What happened? What’s wrong with Jacky?” I ask quickly, my phone creaking in my now firm grasp. “She told me she wanted to take a bath and wash away the bad day… She was in there for an hour, so I got worried. I thought she might’ve fallen asleep, but when I went in...” The elderly woman trails off, and now I can feel my hands sweating and my eyes wide. Roy is standing next to me, his hazel gaze full of concern as he stares me imploringly. “She took a razor to her wrists, Vic. She tried to kill herself!” The woman breaks into tears, then, crying miserably into the phone.

I can only feel any sense of recover fall away from me as the world around me goes silent. Jacquelyn had tried to kill herself? I knew she wanted me to come home soon, but did she… was she trying to get me to stop her? “Oh god…” I whisper, “Grandma I’ll be right there!” I shout into my phone before ending the call and pocketing the device. Turning to Roy, I can feel the blood rush away from my face, And with newfound misery, I whisper her name aloud, tears once more verging in my eyes: “Jacquelyn…”