Page 110 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“It’s okay,” I mutter, shaking my head. “It’s been a long time, so…”
Azaire gently takes my hand, and I nearly choke. It’s strange how fully he seems to understand. “The loss never goes away.”
“Yeah,” I choke out. “But some days are easier to pretend than others.”
He stands there, understanding and holding my hand. Hands that—in a few moments from now—will feed him poison and be forced to heal him.
“You know it’s not your fault, right?”
I pull my hand away, and my fingers suddenly feel cold without his touch. “I don’t see the relevance.”
“You said you tried to save her but couldn’t.” Azaire’s voice drops even lower, as though he’s treading carefully through my pain. “I’m asking, do you think that it was your fault?”
I open my mouth, expecting words to come out. All that escapes me is a small gasp. I stare at him, confused, because he feels as if he is speaking of fact and not fiction. As if heknows.
But he wasn’t there when Ma died. He wasn’t a stubborn fourteen-year-old who thought he could fight. His mother didn’t take the blow that ended her life to save him.
Then, Azaire adds, “It’s normal to have survivor’s guilt—”
“I don’thavesurvivor’s guilt,” I spit, the words sharper than I mean them to be. “I just have guilt.”
Once the words have left my mouth, I catch my breath. The truth of it lingers, worse so the intention.
I didn’t mean for the words to come out so harshly.
I didn’t mean for them to come out at all.
But Azaire doesn’t back away from my sting. Instead, he whispers, “I know what it’s like—”
“How could you possibly know what it’s like for me?” I cut him off, the words burning more than just my tongue. They burn Azaire, too. BecauseIknow what it’s like for him—I know what it’s like for everybody.
But nobody knows what it’s like for me.
Quickly, Azaire grabs my hand, pulling me aside from the group—some of whom are staring back at us. All of whom are judging.
From the back of the line, Ms. Ferner meets my gaze, a dangerous glint in hers.
“I don’t need a lesson in grief.” My free fingers absently twirl the stem of the violet as I stare at my retreating classmates.
Azaire’s voice is quiet, steady, wholly consoling. “I’m not giving you one.”
“Fair.” I don’t look at him. Unprepared to feel the fullness of him.
But I have no choice when his next words slip past his lips and into my ears.
“I killed my parents.”
At first, everything inside me stops. I want to step back, to put distance between us, to run from the weight of those words. My body tenses, every instinct screaming at me to retreat.
But there it is—the childhood home burning and the match in my hand. Inhishand.
I don’t step back. I can’t. I know Azaire well enough to know there’s more. A reason he’s telling me this.
I ask the same question he asked me. “How?”
All Azaire does is point at his beanie.
I take a deep breath.
