Chapter 28
Bitch, You Don’t Love Me
THE REQUIEM | Past
Aweek passes, or maybe a month, or maybe a lifetime. I can’t tell.
Time has become a strange thing lately. The days blur together until I can no longer tell one from another. Morning becomes afternoon, and afternoon becomes evening. Then night arrives with its hush and reminiscences and sorrow. And then it starts all over again.
I wake up.
I exist.
I go back to sleep.
Somewhere in between, another day dies. Much like the rest of my life.
The house is beautiful. Painfully beautiful, until I have explored every inch of it. Now it is only bland.
I once dreamed of living in a house like this.
The sea stretches endlessly beyond the cliffside windows, crashing against the rocks below. Sometimes I sit there for hours watching the waves. Watching them come and go.
Come and go.
Come and go.
I envy them. At least they know where they belong. I don’t.
The house feels too large sometimes. Even the room bears shadows that come to eat me alive; the hallway feels endless when I walk through it, even the corner reminds me that I don’t belong here.
This place isn’t a home. It’s a cage.
Zagreus hired a maid. Her name is Elena. A twenty-something woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile.
She cooks, cleans, waters the flowers, opens the curtains, closes them, and sometimes she tries to speak to me. Most of the time I don’t know what to say. It’s not her fault. She simply cannot fill the hole inside my chest.
Nobody can.
My Mother spends most of her time with me, at least physically. Emotionally, she feels just as far away as everyone else.
She lost her husband. The love of her life. I lost my Father.
And neither of us knows how to help the other survive it.
We sit together often. Sometimes for hours without speaking, just staring at the sea.
Two grieving women pretending the silence doesn’t hurt. Pretending we’re okay.
Pretending tomorrow might somehow be easier. It never is.
The worst part is seeing how much she has changed. My Mother used to laugh.
She used to sing while cooking. Used to hum absentmindedly when reading. Used to tell ridiculous stories that made my Father roll his eyes. Now she barely speaks.
Her smiles are rare.
Her laughter is almost nonexistent.
Sometimes I catch her staring at nothing, lost somewhere I cannot reach, and it terrifies me. Because if my Mother can break, what chance do I have?
As for Zagreus… he is rarely home. I don’t know where he goes. I don’t ask. Part of me doesn’t care. The other part cares far too much. This is precisely why I force myself not to wonder.
Occasionally our paths cross at breakfast, at dinner, in the hallways. Brief moments where we’re forced to acknowledge each other’s existence. The interactions are almost laughable. It’s merely a glance and most of the time, silence, then one of us leaves. Usually me.
I can’t bear to look at him. The ring on my finger reminds me of horrors daily. We also don’t sleep together. On my request, he has given me a separate room. It’s vast, and it feels emptier than this whole house.
He provides for everything; there is jewelry, clothes I don’t bother touching, makeup. But it’s not enough.
The dining table alone could seat twenty people. Yet every meal feels lonelier than the last. Sometimes I feel his eyes on me. The same way I felt them during the wedding.
I never look back. Because looking back implies there is something worth seeing. And I am no longer sure there is. So instead, I find a hobby. Or perhaps a distraction.
Something to keep my hands occupied when my mind becomes unbearable. I choose sketching. It starts accidentally when I find a newspaper left on the coffee table and a forgotten pen. Too many hours with nothing to do, now pages pile up beside me.
Sometimes I don’t even realize what I’m drawing until it’s finished.
The curve of his smile, the lines around his eyes when he laughed, the shape of his hands and lips. Pieces of him trapped on paper because I’m terrified of forgetting the man I used to love. As if forgetting would bring him back, but no, my Zagreus is dead; the only thing left is his replica.
This afternoon I sit by the window with another newspaper spread across my lap. Rain taps softly against the glass; the sky is grey; the sea is grey; everything feels grey.
My pen moves automatically. Line after line, when I finally look down, my breath catches.
It’s him again.
The pen slips from my fingers. A sob rises before I can stop it, followed by another till I can’t breathe. I press a hand against my mouth, trying to hold it together, to stop falling apart.
I don’t hear my Mother approach; her arms are around me before I know she’s there. For a moment, neither of us says anything. I cry. She holds me the same way she used to when I was little. The same way she used to after nightmares.
Only this time neither of us can wake up. “Shh,” she whispers. My heart breaks all over again.
“Will it get better, Mama?”
“No.”
And somehow her word makes me cry harder. Because she knows nobody else could know the size of this loss.
For a long time, she simply strokes my hair, allowing me to fall apart. Eventually my crying quiets into exhausted hiccups.
My Mother wipes my cheeks. “There might be something that can help.”
I frown. “What?”
Her expression softens. “Just something to help you rest.”
Rest.
I cannot remember the last time I slept without nightmares. The last time I woke up without feeling exhausted. Slowly, she reaches into her pocket. And pulls out a small pill.
I stare at it, then at her.
And for the first time all day, a strange feeling settles in my stomach. Something I cannot quite name. As my Mother presses the pill into my palm and closes my fingers around it.
The rain continues to fall outside.
And somewhere deep inside me, something whispers that nothing good will come of this.
You’ll forget it all.