The night is a mistress of life. It is the hardest time to be alive for, those silent hours bring forth Melancholic air and scandalous actions. In its prime it feeds off of the secrets, schemes and lies made within it, knowing it was only a matter o...
"I don't think any of us can speak frankly about pain until we are no longer enduring it."- Arthur Golden
New York, New York MAY 29th
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Today my heart bleeds.
Memories are the sharped edged weapon, piercing my heart with the aid of a grandiose bottle of scotch. The single malt burned with each swallow I took. Not enough to sway me to stop, not enough to dull the pain.
I am not surprised by it.
Grief is commonly referred to as an amputation. How sudden it is, where a day is chosen for you to lose a part of yourself. It won't kill you— it's only an appendage, an extremity— but oh, one cannot deny how crippling the pain can be. The way your mind aches for its flesh back. Replacements, prosthetics, aren't good enough, no it always wants the real thing back. There are things you can do to distract, so much the loss slips to the back of your mind, not quite forgotten— such a dull wound. How wonderful it is, when your mind remembers, feeling betrayed it attacks you with vengeance, soaring pain immobilizing you.
This is your life now, this thing called grief whispers.
Nostalgia takes over my body, I close my eyes and recline into my desk chair, transported back to the past.
Vivid images, of my family and me over a decade ago, together for the sacrosanct holiday, appear. Imitating a commercialized Christmas Day, boisterous chatter, a pungent aroma of the food selection, defying the alleged bylaws of a corrupted family business, we were happy.
Change is a violent thing and anyone who tells you different is either a fool or a liar.
And violent it is, I became equally violent, a vicious man who defends his family's legacy as if it were a dying wish.
But today, today on the anniversary, I allow the pain in, faithful to the reminder, where I mourn the severed bond between me and my older brother and the parts of me that died with him, who I could've been.
Ripping me from my grief-stricken reflection, there's a soft tap placed on my office door.
As I straightened my spine, I scanned my office, making sure it wasn't my imagination. There were instances when I felt his absence too much and saw Niccolò himself.
The facility did not have any windows, designed to maintain the anonymity of the residents and clientele, all lighting was artificial, powered by electricity.
My fingers rubbed my temple, feeling a headache began to form as Kenya stepped into the light marching toward my desk to fulfill a mission.
"Really?" She scolded, snatching the almost empty bottle from my desk, tossing it in the trash bin. "It's not even noon yet."
" Nighttime somewhere," I shrugged, " Coop is at his office, as are the rest of the guys."
"If I wanted to see them, I'd be with them." Kenya sat in the chair on the opposite side of my desk, placing a picture frame on top of it. "I'm here to see you."
