To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Forty-Nine: Extinction

"Cartel de Don Juan Tenorio" by Salvador Dalí (1949), stolen in plain daylight in 2012 in New York City, mailed back to gallery from Greece ten days later, thief was caught by fingerprint left on mailing tube - value $150,000

Chapter Forty-Nine

Every day, a person breaks down the muscle under their skin. And every time, the body repairs it and rebuilds it to be stronger, like children pat wet sand on the cracks in their castles, rebuilding what was carelessly damaged by the tides. Every day, the bone that was once broken becomes fortified; brittle sticks become steel, reinforced to never break as easily as before. Slashed tendons are mended, threaded together, cell by cell. It is the tender work of a body hungering for survival. Gashes are patched by scars. Injuries are healed. Blood is remade. The heart keeps pumping. Maybe erratically, maybe quickly, maybe hardly at all. But it does. The body keeps moving forward, pace by pace, moment by moment. It lumbers, slippery and sticky, trudging the walk of life; throwing limbs forward and dragging itself along.

Every day, we live. We live, even when we don't mean to. We don't always choose to do it. We just... do. We're just here.

Physics tells us some semblance of truth, some smidgen of explanation to satiate our grasping minds.

An object in motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by outside influence.

The heart will keep beating until stopped.

The rate of change is equal to the amount of force provided.

The lungs swell to accommodate the air we give them. Or, the stronger the wind, the more the tree bends.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

For every grind of teeth, the mouth aches. For every beat of the butterfly's wings, a tremor is felt, somewhere, somehow.

There's an outcome to everything done. For every plant the ground is burdened with, the more the sky welcomes new growth. For every swing of fists, the more bruises are painted on skin, dappling canvases with mottled blues and purples, stamping flesh with stricken greens and yellows. The more lies are spoken, the more we put on the scales to lose, silently hoping our hearts will still be light enough in the end.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

That was always the most poignant law of physics to me. The longer we run, the longer they chase. God, I was tired of running. The more we love, the more we hurt. God, I was tired of hurting. The more we value, the more we steal. God, I was so damn tired of stealing.

Actions had consequences. It was like that with people, too. The more I held Simon, the more I cursed him, impaling myself on the sword he swung to guard me. The more I ignored August, the more I haunted him, feeling his hurt in every beat of my own heavy heart. And the more I scorned the woman who'd died, the more I punished myself, feeling the blade settle in my chest like it was always meant to be.

From the weight of my truths to the openness of a god's scorn, I'd fallen apart.

It was all true. Hear it from my lips: I'd wanted to do the right thing. I really had. I'd wanted to make everything right. I'd wanted the Widow's loss to be a passing meteor, singeing our skin but never invoking outright flaming. Instead, I'd done nothing but hurt the people I cared for; I'd done nothing but ruin, lie, and love.

No, nothing had worked out. Nothing had happened like I'd thought. I'd done nothing good; I'd done nothing but end my world and burn others with the implosion. I'd wanted to return something that wasn't anyone's to have—but it hadn't been real in the first place.