Page 74 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Finally, Lucian speaks, voice low. “You’re probably right.”
His lie dangles in the air, the haze of uncertainty clouding everything. But one thing becomes clear amidst the fog: he doesn’t know what my mother would do, either.
Which means I know her as well as a stranger.
Chapter 16
Show Me Your Scars
So I Can Forget
Mine
M
ost of my time has been spent trying to understand Ma. Countless times, I’ve reread the three journal entries I stole from her study. The ink is etched into the back of my eyelids. Closing my eyes always brings her vision—her words, her form, her presence.
The boy’s presence fills my mind, like fog at the top of a mountain.
“You’re torturing yourself.”
“What if I deserve it?”I retort.“I should have seen it sooner…”
“You don’t have to see anything.”
I close my eyes, reaching for the boy. Even in the realm of my mind, I’m still clutching Ma’s journal entries. I hold onto them tightly, as if they might be swept away by the wind, and my nails dig into my palm with the strength of my grip.
“This is proof,”I say.“It’s proof that shewoulduse a person to power that weapon, even if it kills them. It’s proof that I was wrong about Ma my entire life.”
The boy stands up from my bed, walking toward me with tentative steps. He reaches for my cheek, but I flinch, and he slowly lowers his hand, frowning.
Taking a soft step back, he nods. Though he exists only in my mind, I start to sense him as I do others. I think he’s afraid of losing me to this.
“What you have is a glimpse of her mind when she was eighteen. It isn’t proof, it’s an idea, a journal. It’s the impulsive inklings of a teenager, immortalized by a pen.”His tone is soft, gentle. It’s hard to reconcile that he’s a part of me—I’m never this gentle with myself.
I step past him, falling onto my bed.“I just don’t know what to believe anymore.”
AmI losing myself to this?
“That’s good,”the boy says, sitting next to me.“It means you’ll find something new.”
?
I go far into the woods—far enough that I don’t have to feel anyone. There are the trees, and there is quiet.
It’s all I want.
It’s all I hope for.
I sit in the grass, running my hands through the blades and sipping the silence.
It could be peace—until the pain hits.
I reach for my torso, trying to staunch the blood. But there is no blood. Not mine, at least.
I rise, searching for the sensation. I hardly last a second until I feel it again—claws digging into my gut. I crash to my knees, collapsing against the sharp rock. But the borrowed pain is far worse than the bruise and blood.
The terror shrivels my insides more than the gut-curdling scream. On shaking legs, I stand, walking toward the fear, the pain, the hollow ache in my chest. It’s beyond the protective barrier but I go anyway, unaware of my own insanity.
