The Periods of Being

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVII

Two Years and Six Months Later...

     Time doesn't heal. The mourning period never gave her any comfort, nor did it allow her to grieve properly like others have told her it would. Like an invasion parasite, the grief stayed throughout the years. The numbing feeling in her veins stayed alongside the grief, giving her days full of nothingness and then nights of pain. Her body grew accustomed to any weather, not allowing a drop of rain or a flake of snow stop her from visiting Mark's grave.

     Like today.

     Another day, she thinks to herself. Despite all the time passed, nothing has been able to vanish the darkness over her head nor the clouds wrapped around her heart. She sighs and throws the blanket off of her to turn over to Mark's empty side of the bed.

      "Good morning," she whispers to the shadow of him. Her hand reaches over to the empty space and traces the stitches. Her good morning is a routine she developed the first time being back after the funeral and after Andrew's request.

      Time moves too fast for her these days. Too fast for her to fully understand her grieving and too fast for her to understand the question Andrew left for her more than two years ago. She is struck with the realization that today marks the two years and six months since she went into the mourning period. It feels unreal, unnatural, and untimely.

     It can't be that time already, she begins to think. Nothing has changed. I'm supposed to be better...But I feel worse.

     Over the years since the funeral, she has been declining in ways she didn't know she could. She spent all her hours at the cemetery. Sometimes she talked to Mark, imagining that somewhere he is listening to her. Other times, she sat on the bench by the church and overlooks the cemetery with silence. She did this every day. Not like clockwork, but more like muscle memory— like a puppet on strings, being told what to do and where to go.

     It is better to go see Mark rather than live in crushing silence in the manor. That is why she sits up and rings for Julie to help her get ready for the day.

    When Julie knocks on the doors and slips in, Olive is sitting on the chair in front of the vanity with her eyes staring at herself in the mirror than at Julie.

    "Good morning, miss," Julie welcomes. "Did you sleep well?" Julie goes over to the dresser, not waiting for Olive to reply since she already knows that Olive isn't going to answer such a question. The answer has been the same for almost three years.

    Her dreams have been plagued with memories of Mark and then with Andrew. Every night, she falls asleep in hopes that somehow the dreams will be different and she'll only dream of her husband, but the wish goes unanswered and she is stuck in a trance of the hybrid of a dream and nightmare.

     Do you feel the same?

     "It looks like it'll be a nice day." Olive reverts her eyes over to the window to see it is indeed going to be a nice day— she just didn't realize it. The cool wind seeps out from under the crack of the open window and dances around her and Julie. She turns away from the window and back to the mirror.

    Today might be a nice day, but she is stuck underneath a constant thunderstorm. Her eyes are bloodshot like they always are, and her hair is a tangled mess. She is certain that underneath the mess of her hair there are a few small bald patches where she has pulled out some strands to try to release herself from anxiety during the night. She refuses for Julie to pin it high in fear that she is correct.