Peaches

Twenty Eight

Grief works in mysterious ways. According to my most recent internet search, there are different stages one goes through both mentally and physically. All are categorized in line with time and how the person heals. Some may take years, and some are fortunate enough to be able to skip ahead fairly quickly to the last step; acceptance. Can you ever really accept death? To accept that there will never be new memories, to know that you'll never hear that familiar voice, or laugh ever again. Any questions would be left unanswered, and eventually, you'll just have to accept the fact that they'll never be back again to share another moment. Just gone, lost somewhere so far away.

There's no way of telling what stage I was at. Perhaps it was denial or some sort of sick destruction phase where nothing matters. For the past two weeks, Chris has urged me to recognize that I've set myself in a state of mind where I don't matter, where taking care of myself has become a chore. 

I can hardly eat anymore.

He wants to help, tiring himself every day to do what he can, but now I feel, even he's at a loss. 

All of his energy is put into making sure that I am safe and well watched in the house, especially after I explained the roses. Those stupid symbols of Marcello's twisted game, an end that I see coming very soon.

What could I do?

Chris was fueled by the fire that was set, using his anger to deepen his search for our common enemy. Knowing that Marcello or one of his men had been in our home pushed Chris to a point of near insanity; whether he wanted to admit it or not. Day and night, in one way or another he exhausted all energy on developing a game plan to assure our protection, and every day he made it routine to fill me in on it.

I just wish I had the energy to care, or even to listen.

"Bri," Chris sighed, sitting on the edge of mommas bed in which I had made my home. A safe haven for me to wallow in my sadness. "Just come and shower with me. It'll be good for you."

"I don't want to stand." I croaked, shutting my eyes away from him. I couldn't stand that look he was giving me. That sad stare was full of pity and worry.

"Then I'll give you a bath,"

"I'm starting my period. I don't want to get up."

"Briella," He spoke in a gentle tone, peeling back the tightly fitted blanket that shielded me from the cold sting of the air. "I know you don't want to-"

"Chris," I shouted, flicking my eyes open to singe him with a hateful glare. "Get out."

"No." He shrugged sympathetically, keeping his cool better than I would have expected him to. "I'm not letting you skip it this time."

Why couldn't he just let me be? I wasn't hurting anyone by laying here, I especially wasn't hurting him. All that I truly needed, was to be alone.

"And I won't let you move me." With one final scowl, I shut my eyes again, returning to the comfort of darkness behind my eyelids. "Leave me alone."

"I didn't want to have to use-"

"Then don't. Don't touch me, Christian, don't-"

His arms slid under my coiled body and he swooped me up, leaving no room for further protest as he carried me out of her room and into the ghostly cold bathroom.

"I'm sorry, Briella." He said to me quietly before placing me down on the lid of the toilet. "I'm only trying to help you."

I turned my face away from his and focused on the slow drip of the leaky bathroom faucet, letting its soft drip be the only sound heard over the room. Such a familiar noise, a sound that put me in a state of nostalgia. A sickening feeling. This has always been my home.