People Like Grayson | G.D.

People Like Grayson

You waited until your fourteenth birthday to check what your wrist said.

You'd waited years until you really wanted to know, until you couldn't wait, and then you waited some more. You never saw the point in finding out; you weren't a fan of the future when your life was average and rocky, and you didn't want anything to be set in stone, including the words you'd hear echoing in your head torturously after you'd lost the one you would love. So, you avoided the ink like the black plague and hoped that maybe if you didn't know, it wouldn't happen.

But then, you were twelve and you stood at the wake of your grandpa's funeral with bloodshot eyes and a lawless hatred for the universe and you held your brother's hand like it was a lifeline. From the corner of your eye you saw your mother cry hysterically into her hands and that was just too much for you, no matter how much you bit on your lip, no matter how much blood seeped into your mouth, no matter how much you clenched your jaw to hold back strangled sobs, you couldn't hold it in, so you let it out. You shook your head and cursed your emotions, cursed your love for people, cursed your giant heart and the memories it held for the little old man who brought you to ice cream parlors every Sunday.

You curled in on yourself in the back of a church bench, wrapped your own weak arms around your own weak knees because you'd shoved away the affection of everyone else that night, because it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that we spent our lives loving and losing and trying to deal with the aftermath of constant heartbreak. You were bawling into balled fists when you heard the creak of old wood beside you, and you feared it might be God himself coming to chastise you for your doubt, for your anger and your hostility.

But it wasn't. It was your grandma, sweet as honey and warm as the sun, grinning softly as she rubbed a wrinkled hand down your back. You scrubbed away your selfish tears, humiliated as you stared at the woman that would suffer the most from it all, the woman who smiled in sympathy as she lost her soulmate. "Darling you're going to flood the Sahara with all these tears," she cooed, chuckling as you groaned.

"Gram, I don't wanna go a Sunday without ice cream," you whispered, sucking in your bottom lip.

"Who says you gotta?" she asked.

You shrugged and picked at a loose thread in your very prickly dress. "Fate."

"Did fate kill all the cows and steal all the sugar?" she laughed, patting your thigh casually, and that stung more than anything–that your Grandma was cracking jokes for your sake when you were sure she was withering inside.

"Gram, it hurts," you breathed, your words practically inaudible. "Please don't act like everything's okay."

"But everything is, Sweetheart. I got all I need. I got closure," she beamed. She yanked up her shawl sleeve and ran her finger over the veiny skin of her wrist. "Says 'Don't forget to feed Brutus while I'm gone,'" she grinned, still petting the ink where it marked her.

You weren't quite sure how that could sugarcoat the fact that her husband was dead.

"He knows I forget. He knows me better than anyone else, and he just had said it as I sat in the hospital holdin' his hand. Such a bittersweet feeling knowing you spent your life with the right person as they die, and Honey, I had your grandpa for forty-eight years; had him for long enough for him to know me and love me too. Everything is okay."

Your eyes flooded once more and your nose stung. "What'd you say back?" you asked, your voice thick with emotion.

"Said 'Don't forget to love me when you leave,'" she smiled, squeezing your leg painfully tight and you knew it hurt her. But then she was chuckling all raspy and saying, "Bastard. Gave him such a romantic tattoo, and all I have is this reminder," with a laugh, waving her wrist.