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It hurt me that my entire family walked on eggshells around me because they feared I’d start screaming like I had that day.
I’d stopped insisting that I felt him.
I stopped trying to explain that an unexplainable part of me screeched and clawed, desperately sure he was still alive.
That certainty was violent.
Messed up.
Agonising.
I hid a lot of how I truly felt.
My denial of his passing wasn’t socially acceptable.
They wanted to move on...yet I would always cling to the past.
The gunshot I heard on the phone might not have been real.
The confession from Aslan’s murderer might be a lie.
Aslan still existed because...my heart said so.
But my heart might be the biggest liar of all.
Maybe this was how all death felt?
Maybe my refusal to believe was normal?
Maybe this blind hope was normal?
Maybe this inconsolable depression was exactly normal, and I was as deluded as people whispered.
He...
He’s dead.
I tried the truth on for size.
Every molecule in my body boycotted it.
I wanted to retch. To shake. To cry.
No.
He’s not.
He can’t be.
I hunched.
Those words.
That vicious conviction.
He can’t be.
And there was my answer.
