Tag Archive | prose

from “Into the Darkness”


“Alone. Yes, that’s the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn’t hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.” ~Stephen King

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She looked at me with all the compassion she could muster when she told me I had to move on without him. And I longed to whisper, “Be very careful when you wish for my silence, because your wish may come true,” but I only looked at the ground. What could I possibly say—it was over? I was done? Death took my love from me?—there was nothing I could say, there was no way in which to explain how empty I felt or how bleak the future appeared. It didn’t matter what I said—I was alone.

Whether I saw it happen or not—it happened—the day he died, I began dying too. As I watched the light fade from his eyes, it began fading from mine too. All the times we stood gazing into each other’s eyes—all the times I told him I could sink into his blue eyes—all the times he told me that my brown eyes just knew—everything—had seen everything. . . and now the light faded. For nearly five years, the light continued to flicker, but now—the light is dead.

I must have read a thousand pieces telling me how to grieve, but grief has a mind of its own. There is not a manual specific to every case—there is not a set of instructions—each soul is alone in its grief. Some recover; some do not. I’ve faced the inevitable truth of my own grief—I struggle to live without love. I love still—my children, my parents, my family, my friends—there is still love, but I no longer know the love of a man so that he sees the world in my eyes. There is no passion in my life, no one will ever think I am beautiful or that my soul is made of light. The light is dead.

It took a long time for me to realize that there is no way to explain my loss to others. It is impossible for them to understand what life is without passion and love, because they have it. They claim understanding, but they claim it from the embrace of their lover. For me, life is empty without passion, without my love. The light of life is dead.

I have nothing left to give. I grieved through my words, believing they would help me heal, but the wound is so deep that it will not heal. I’ve put all my energy into overcoming human frailty—overcoming the need for affection—overcoming the need to be loved. I think I’ve beat it. I no longer cling to an idea that I have a future; I’ve accepted that I will spend the rest of my days in solitude—alone. Accepting it is the easy part—eliminating the yearning for affection is the most difficult task I’ve undertaken. But I agreed. On some level—I agreed. On some subconscious level beyond my memory—I agreed. I accept my fate, but if only I could move beyond the human shell I inhabit and overcome all the emotion. Mechanical? Perhaps, but it would be so easy to continue. I function in the dark now, so on some level; the transformation is underway.

I’ve read so many articles and papers on what solitude does to the human being, so I accept my plight with full knowledge of the danger. They say it cannot be done, but I am an anomaly to the species—I can do it. I can march through the seasons, alone and cold. For reasons unknown to me—it is my only choice. I surrender to solitude, but I will not surrender to rhetoric. They say it cannot be done; I say that it can be done.

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The girl I was once is dead. She battled so hard to stay alive, but defeat was inevitable. No one can look beyond the physical scars to feel attraction to her—no one can reach beyond the emotional scars to save her—she is gone. How upsetting it is that people believe strength comes from solitude. Perhaps it does when solitude is a choice, but when you find yourself alone because of death, your strength only comes from struggling to survive. I’ve given up trying to explain to people that there is a difference in finding moments alone, while someone who loves you is waiting for you and living every moment alone while no one waits.

It is impossible to explain what life devoid of passion and love is like after knowing it so thoroughly. Perhaps if I’d never known, the transition would be much easier, but having known it is like having manna from the gods, and then starving without it. There are those of us who fail to present beauty in its societal form. There are those of us who only attract one person. One man loved me completely, regardless of how I looked to the rest of the world. Then fate took him from me, and left me to exist alone. They say, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” well, he was my “beholder.” He saw past the scars and through the demons to my soul, and loved me anyway.

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Words were my vice—I loved to write—but without anyone listening—my words are empty now. They are only words, and they are not reaching anyone. I crave the feedback that he gave to me—and it no longer exists. I am finished. How happy others will be to know that I’ve finally accepted the challenge fate gave to me—I accept my mission wholeheartedly—to embrace the solitude in all its darkness and complete my work in silence. No one will ever love me or hold me again. The long, cold years have hardened me. No one will ever laugh at my silly jokes or hold my hand when I am scared. He is gone, and I walk alone . . . into the darkness. Until I see him again.

©2014 Relinda R.

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A Heart’s Drip


what a luxury it was for people to be able to hold their loved ones whenever they wanted.” ~Cecelia Ahern

tears

I am almost certain that I recently broke. I laughed. I did not just emit properly timed laughter; I really laughed, almost hysterically. At some point during mid-laughter, I sobbed. Just like that. My laughter transformed into pitiful wails instantly. I could not stop. I sobbed that way for almost a solid hour, just gasping for air in between gut-wrenching sobs. Oddly enough, I do not remember what was so damn funny in the first place; it was something I saw on the television. It was during the next moments that I woke.

Really. I did. I just felt different, not better or worse, just different. I guess I finished another stage. Following my break, tears just continued to flow down my face. I know because the tears tickled my face and I would have to wipe them away. Sometimes, a tear would quickly make its way down my cheek and fall onto my book. Just like that—drip . . . drip . . . drip. It must be comparable to existing as a leaky faucet. I remember wondering if there was a way to turn the faucet off. (Note to self—there is not an arrow on one’s heart directing which way one should turn for off).

I spent the next day in silence. Total silence. I did not turn on the radio or television. The only sound I heard was the sound of the wind whenever I walked my dog and the occasional drip . . . drip . . . drip . . . of the faucet from my heart.

“When Grandma read me:
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall . . .

                            I never
knew
that
Humpty’s
fall
was
something
that
someday
comes
to
us
all.”

(Lee Bennett Hopkins)

 And there is not one fuckin’ king’s man or horse who can put Humpty Dumpty back together or one fuckin’ plumber who can fix a heart’s drip. Not one.

©Relinda R. 2013

Cold Embraces


The end of another year is yet another painful reminder of the sorrow solitude carries. Visions of memories that could have been built glimmer as multi-faceted prisms within the mind. The shimmering beauty captivates the eye and the heart. Forlorn souls can only watch as the mesmerizing prisms fall and shatter into a million tiny slivers of lost hope. And at the stroke of midnight that heralds in a new year, while most are in the arms of love, the bereaved are in the arms of agony. The forlorn souls will sleep in the cold embrace of misery tonight and every night beyond.

© 2011 Relinda R.

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The Book…Your Book…


Each moment of life is an eloquent word written in a paragraph. Those paragraphs are created from each day of experiences filled with laughter and tears. Each year, another chapter is complete. It is my wish that each of your pages contain laughter. It is my wish that you never have to wear a smile as armor. It is my wish that you never have to hurt alone. None of us knows how many chapters our book will hold, but it is my wish that as you write the concluding chapter of yours, you will smile and say, “I have loved with all my heart and I am truly loved for my heart.”

©2011 Relinda R.Image

Grief Consumes Everything


     During the last two-and-a-half years, I must have read a hundred different articles on learning to handle grief. I have read at least five books explaining how to cope with loss. I have listened to advice from countless individuals; most of them saying “get over it.” All that reading and enlightenment, but I am not one step closer to coming to terms with what my life has become. In fact, I think that I drift further from acceptance and more toward bitterness with each article I read.

     Everyone was so supportive and kind in the beginning. After the first year, most people expect you to move on with your life. The life you planned to spend with the person you love now changed forever. Ironically, it is usually people who have his or her significant other in their bed each night. They have no idea what it is like to spend two decades with someone you love so much and suddenly find yourself alone, but they believe they know what is best.

     I think I spent the first year in a fog. I was so busy trying to function each day that I collapsed in exhaustion each night, leaving little time to absorb reality. In hindsight, that was fate mercifully allowing me time to come to grips with my enormous loss. Even fate was wrong. I am still unable to fathom living without the man I love.

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     I still struggle to endure the days and the eternal nights without him. I do not know how I will be in another year or in ten years, but I do know that right now, the worst thing you can say to me is “You will have a long life.” Those words are like razors cutting into my heart. At this point, the most merciful thought in my mind is that I can join my sweetheart soon. There it is in all its glory. Oh, I know people will be ready to commit me for saying such a thing. I do not care anymore. I am not suicidal or insane; I am grieving. Grief has a way of consuming every hope a person ever had. I just want to go home so I can be with my love. There are moments when I feel especially angry and someone will admonish me for feeling this way. For just a second, I want to say to them, “Fuck you. You don’t know anything.” Of course, I do not say that because that is not how I speak, but it flashes through my mind. Instead, I apologize to them for grieving. How pathetic. I should not have to apologize for enduring this agony; it should be acceptable that I scream, cry and curse God for taking my husband.

     I find myself wishing the fog would consume me again. I always heard that it is worse after the first year passes. I have learned this is true. It is when that merciful fog lifts that life becomes almost unbearable. Every day I wonder how I will paint this smile upon my face and empathize with others. Each day drags out with the knowledge that nothing good will come of it. That is one of the most painful prospects of living—knowing that there is absolutely nothing to anticipate but death. Grief consumes Hope. Grief consumes everything and eventually, it will consume me.

©2012 Relinda R.

    

 

My heart is bro…


My heart is broken and it will never mend. I have accepted that I must continue on this path I chose, but that does not mean I have to like it. It is true that I have awesome children, awesome family and awesome friends and for that, I am grateful. I have accepted the fact that a man will never again look into my eyes and love me for who I am. I know that I will never again be held in strong arms or kissed until I feel like I am the most beautiful woman in the world. I am not a stupid person. I know those days of feeling special are over. Please stop telling me “At least you have your children” or “at least you still have your parents.” I know this, but there are different types of love. A husband is someone you become a part of, someone with whom you make love. Love for your children is different from the love you share with a partner. Please stop judging me. I am not suicidal. I go out of my way to make others feel good about themselves. I strive to make people laugh and smile. So why do you keep judging me? I have done nothing to hurt you. I know that I will never be loved again; I do not need you to constantly remind me. Praying to see my husband does not imply that I am insane, it makes me human. Pass judgment on your own reflection, not on me.

©2012 Relinda R.

The flowers onc…


The flowers once exuded the beauty of life itself. The blooms would close in the darkness as though warding off some invisible threat of the night. The sunlight beckoned them to show their glory so that the world could revel in their beauty. It is their gift to the world of the living. They breathe and live so that we may share in their beauty. The sunlight never came again after one cold dark night. The flowers died. They knew.

©Relinda R.

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