New short story: (tw mentions of parent death, grief, depression)
I lie alone on a black and white floor. My tears flow. There are so many of them that I wonder why I donโt see a puddle on the floor.
Today should have been a good day. A beautiful day.
And it was. So achingly beautiful.
To others it will remain that way.
Those royals and courtsmen walking through the gardens. Those loyal subjects celebrating the day, giving it life.
I will lie alone on this floor. Sobbing so that I can scarcely breathe.
My mother is dead. People will say passed, people will say gone but they sugar coat the truth, only to make themselves feel better. She isnโt gone, her body is still here. She is dead.
I will never speak with her again. I will never be hugged by her again.
One day we must all go through this loss, unless we die first, in which it can be argued a greater loss shall occur.
But pay that no mind, because that is not the loss that is occurring now.
My sobs will richoett off the walls until someone finds me.
Part of me prays no one will find me and part of me wants someone to be here, to be with me every step of the way. But that wonโt happen. That will never happen.
When the sobbing is done I shall pick up my own pieces. I shall place them crooked back together and I will walk and walk and walk until people wonder where I am.
Until search parties come looking. I shall run until I can run no more.
