Page 1 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Part 1:
The Shell
Chapter 1
Before This War Is Over,
I’d Like to Ask
T
he room is silent, but I hear everything.
Boredom rattles behind me like a restless foot hitting a desk leg. Over and over. Banging into my mind until I can’t forget the sound. Shame slams into me from across the classroom—it’s not mine, but it roots itself in my chest like it grew there. I suck in my stomach, hold my breath, make myself smaller, all for her. I do what she wants.
What she does.
Where does her feeling end, and my body begin?
The professor’s irritation hammers behind my eyes. Calista’s rage clings to my skin, settling beneath me like I belong to her. Lately, she feels like this all the time. There’s a party in the woods tonight, meant to celebrate her engagement.
One that I know was never her choice.
My teeth grind together until I’m scared they’ll shatter right out of my mouth. I want to slap the desk, throw my chair—anything to give this rage a place to go.
I want to scream. But it wouldn’t be my voice.
It would be theirs.
Instead, I grip the arms of my chair, my nails digging into the cushion until I hear it rip.
The sound seems to echo through the classroom, as if this space is sacred. Holy. Even if it’s far from so.
“Wendy,” Calista hisses.
I look up.
The professor’s face is stone. His bald head is shining. “Ms. Estridon, do you intend to participate?”
If I could explain, I would.
I am a body of water, contaminated by all that touches me.
“What was the question?” I ask, trying to separate myself from Calista’s constant anger.
He sighs. “If your personality shapes your actions—and that personality is largely a product of your genetics and life experiences, both of which are mostly beyond your control—can you truly be said to have free will?”
He paces once, slowly.
“Now, let’s complicate it,” he says. “Add the gods. Systems above you, shaping you. Does that give you more freedom—or take it away?”
The question makes sense. It just doesn’t leave room for mercy. I didn’t ask for this power or choose to feel everyone inside my skin. It’s the magic that isolates me. The thing that forces distance while I beg for connection.
I’d prefer free will to be a sham because I don’t feel I have any in the first place.
“I’d have to ponder,” I answer.
“That is the point of this class, Ms. Estridon.” His tone is curt.
