It's Okay to Cry
I could fell the tears burning my eyelids, begging for release. I could feel the sobs tearing at my throat, aching to escape my lips. I could feel my trembling knees under me, daring me to buckle. But the worse feeling — a feeling of total and complete loss, desperation, fear, hopelessness, emptiness — had swallowed my heart whole.
My heart was lost in an infinite hole of black on top of endless, pressing black. Whatever I turned to, whoever I turned to, there was no light… only darkness, pressing darkness; full, impenetrable darkness.
And yet no tear fell from my eye, no sob escaped these lips, no demeanor lost. Calm, cool, level-headed demeanor lost. Always calm; always understanding; always knowing.
But no longer.
I wanted only to break free from the impenetrable shell that I call heart. I wanted to cry, to grieve, to mourn. Yet… my face remained dry, composed, alert. No tears for this aching soul, no living waters.
I recall to this day my downfall. I remember waking, I remember seeing him perched on the end of my bed, I remember his words.
"He killed them; all three of them. I'm so sorry to bear this awful news."
I remember the pit of my stomach dropping, and I remember that feeling, like a leaking tea cup, dripping away slowly. Realization seeped in slowly, drop by miserable drop. I remember looking down to find my knuckles white against my sheets. With a last farewell and a trickling tear, he left me alone. But to do what?
Cry? No, I don't cry. I haven't cried since the death of my mother. Reflect, perhaps? Reflect on what? All memories were lost on me. So I sat. And sat. And I only sat, my mind numb.
That was when the numbness settles in. It was cold; an icy, metallic cold, and it dared not let go. It spread slowly until my whole body was ice. I went to bend my fingers only to find I had neither the want nor the will to do so. I was lost.
As the hours — the days — passed, the numbness passed… but the cold did not. The numbness faded away only to be replaced by with the feeling of death.
It bit. When I drew breath, it bit. When I held my breath, it bit. It stung with an icy coldness comparable to nothing. It was as if it drew strength from my pain.
Every breath was now a struggle. They were gone; why was I here? I, the most undeserving of all of us, and yet here I was, living and as well as I could be. But alone; oh so alone. And cold, swallowed in death. I was lost.
Desperation settled in, heavy and oppressive. I was desperate, desperate to have them back, desperate to see them one last time, desperate for life; the life I couldn't give them.
And with the desperation — fear; a fear unlike any other. What was I going to do with my life? They had guided me through everything, always there to help and comfort me. But no more. Fear enveloped me, wrapping me with worry and weariness. It drained the life from me.
I was empty, helpless. They filled my heart; they were my heart. And now that they were gone, they took my heart with them. All that was emptiness; an open void of helplessness, weakness. I knew not what to do with myself. So I did nothing. But I did not cry.
Darkness consumed my life… and it had only been three days. All I did was watch the leaves fall delicately from the trees outside my window in the harsh November wind; cold, like me. My fingers would trace their names across my white skin, but I would feel nothing.
I considered it; I considered it often, but somehow, I knew. I longed to be with them, it would be so simple… and yet, I couldn't bring myself to do it. It was as if they were telling me that I was needed here, with those who loved me.
And then the funerals came. I showered, dressed in black, made my way to the graveyard. Heavy white frost covered the ground, a bitter wind blowing through my hair.
I felt the same pain here that I did at my house; restless, unnerved, disbelieving. But only when I stood over their lifeless bodies, skin pale as the moon and smooth as glass, did I realize: They were dead. They could never come back. I would never see them again. I was alone, absolutely alone.
I could feel the pressure behind my eyes, the burning, the blurring. I couldn't see. My shoulders shook with repressed sobs as the wind blew at the ghostly white sheets covering them. I could feel my stomach churning inside of me, the lunch I had forced down threatening to come back up.
I felt a warm hand on my numbing shoulder. I refused to show my face, not in this weakened state.
"Look at me," a voice commanded softly.
I raised my eyes to his wizened old face. His hand gave my shoulder a squeeze. A tear slid down his crooked nose.
"Remus," he said quietly, "it's not a sin to cry. It's okay to cry."
And so I did.
Author's Notes: Yo.
-tear- This one's sad. :'( Poor Remmy...
-sighs-
Review, if you would!
Alisa