“Good evening,Ignis. It’s eight thirty p.m., Sunday, October thirtieth. I’m Chelsea Donovan and this is Channel One News. It is a heartbreaking evening today in Ignis, as the news that shocked us all came just a couple of minutes ago to the studio. The body of twenty-three-year-old Clarissa Hutchins has been found today at Katoro beach by two teenagers who were passing by, trying to catch the sunset. Clarissa was reported missing last year on November first. Her parents couldn’t get hold of her after she arrived at Ignis for what many presume was a party. Sources say that she attended…”
I tuned out the news anchor, my skin tingling from what I’ve heard already, and I focused on the dark skies hovering over Ignis. I admired the news anchor for keeping a straight face and an unwavering voice through that announcement—I wouldn’t have been able to do the same.
Maybe it was because I knew grief.
It often arrived unannounced, knocking down your world like a house of cards and tearing at your flesh with a razor-sharp blade, while you choked on your misery, with your throat closing in and your eyes welling up. The wounds it left, they turned into scars that kept stinging somewhere deep inside your soul. No matter how many times you told yourself you were fine—you weren’t. Not really.
Grief wasn’t something tangible. I couldn't crumple it up like a piece of paper and throw it aside every time I found it hard to breathe.
It was a constant pain, a constant throbbing… A violent reminder how short life really was. And sometimes… Sometimes it quieted down, on those days when the sun shone brightly and when, for a moment, you allowed yourself a moment of peace. Where oblivion was a better option than the memories your brain kept pushing forward.
But it always came back, sometimes stronger than before. It lived in the lyrics of the songs, whispering, whispering, whispering, destroying you all over again. It existed in memories you couldn’t,no, you didn’t want to forget, but it would’ve been easier going through life without them. Some days it was a friend, others a foe, and on every October thirtieth it was a darkness clouding my mind, reminding me of everything I’d lost.
Seven years and a couple of hours, but the quiet cries of my brother still lingered on the edges of my mind, and that final, shaky breath he took astheystole away the light of my life.
The only family I had left.
The only person that truly understood me.
I’ve been chasing storms my entire life, hoping that someday, one of them would finally take me away from this godforsaken place. I hoped that the rain every storm brought with itself would pull me into its depths, luring me into the darkness, so that I didn’t have to think about everything that was and everything that could never be. Today, more than ever, my thoughts took me back in time, to the night that tore away the innocence. To the night where demons danced their wicked little tango on the shoulders of the uncorrupted child, purring with their poisonous tongues.
Burn them.
Burn them, little one.
Burn the wicked ones.
Today, more than ever, the storm coming in lured me into its shadows, beckoning me with its thunderous voice, caressing my skin with the cold hands of wind that picked up above Ignis.
I just wished it could wash away the stain from my own heart, in the same way when it washed away the sins of that night, hiding the tracks of a wicked man and woman from the eyes of the bystanders.
Almost unconsciously, I traced the scar on my lower back, drowning out the screams and cries playing on repeat in my head that often kept me awake at night. My lips pulled into a smile, my heart thundered in my chest, and deep inside, I couldn’t lie to myself.
I had no regrets.
Lightning cut through the darkened sky, illuminating the violent, menacing clouds over the city, while the wind played with the strands of my hair. The taste of sorrow weeping from the group home I was placed in tainted the air, and the sound of children crying from the inside was muffled by the crash of thunder somewhere over the mountains.
Little Lorelei had struggled to adjust to the new house, despite having arrived a month ago. I almost pitied her. I knew that no matter how much she cried or how many times she called for her mom, she would never come back. But I couldn’t tell that to a seven-year-old child who couldn’t quite understand the meaning of death.
I thought about it, about death, more often than I should’ve. But how could I not, when it was the one constant thing in the first half of my life? Most of the people my age never had to deal with death. They never had to look into its eyes, realizing that it took everything away from them.
They never had to leave their home, their country, their perfect, safe world, only to be whisked from home to home, from one family to another, keeping the pieces of who they used to be, afraid that even that would be torn away from them.
They never had to hide their sins deep inside their hearts, afraid that one day all the secrets they’d been keeping would suffocate them alive.
They never had to hold the lifeless body of their sibling while the flames ate the walls of the foster home.
Marcus’s last resting place.
His last cry and my rage.
Stinging pain ricocheting from my palms pulled me away from the dark thoughts of my past, and as I looked down, I could see the angry, red, moon-shaped indents appearing on my pale skin.
“You’re okay,” I told myself, closing my eyes momentarily. “You’re going to be fucking okay,” I murmured again, controlling my breathing. I could feel my chest rising and falling, my temples throbbing, but no matter how many times I’ve tried, this avalanche of emotions couldn’t be stopped with just a few deep breaths and a promise to myself that I would be okay.
Because I wasn’t okay.
I was as far from okay as one person could be, but I couldn’t say that out loud.
