Chapter 1 #2
I was hoping it would give me the strength I needed to move on, because this was where our family was the happiest. It didn't take me long to realize that it was only a house, with walls, empty, soulless, because a place wasn't what created those beautiful memories.
It was the people, it was our moments together, and when people were no longer there, when memories stopped being created, the house turned into a tomb, waiting for the day when it would, too, be forgotten entirely.
My biggest fear was that one day down the road, I would forget their faces.
I would forget the sound of their voices.
I would forget my mother's scent, my father's favorite dish, and my sister's favorite shirt.
My therapist told me I was living with survivor's guilt, and while the logical part of my brain understood that this behavior was anything but normal, I couldn't let go.
I couldn't keep on living and pretending I was grateful for being alive.
I guess in a way this house was slowly becoming my own tomb.
Ingrid, my friend, was worried about me coming back here, but I couldn't explain to her that something in my soul kept on telling me I had to come back.
Some invisible force was pulling me back to this house, to the place where we were all happy that one last time, and it wasn't even because I wanted to feel them.
Because I couldn't.
I couldn't feel them anymore.
People often said they could feel their loved ones even after they were gone, especially at the places where they used to spend their time, but it was as if with their passing everything they were, every last piece of their energy, was gone too, leaving me all alone.
All I was left with were these material things I had to sort through.
And I didn't want to.
I didn't want to touch my sister's diaries.
I didn't want to see what her dreams and desires were.
I didn't want to open the old toolbox my father used for everything, and, most of all, I didn't want to go through the boxes in the attic, stored there by my mother when I started asking what all those journals she'd been keeping were.
But they didn't die only for me to follow after them when I had every opportunity to live.
Their deaths shouldn't be in vain, and after standing far too long in front of the window, looking at the backyard that was now covered in frost, I pushed myself to move.
To make the breakfast I've promised myself I would make.
To start living even if every step felt like walking uphill and not just down the hallway.
I ignored the photos lining the wall as I went down the staircase, holding my hand over my heart, as if that could stop my insides from spilling out. No one ever warned you what grief felt like. No one could really describe it, no one, because it manifested differently to each and every one of us.
But mine… Mine felt as if something kept on slicing through my insides, through my stomach, my lungs, my heart, leaving a massacre behind, making it almost impossible to breathe.
Mine didn't live only in the moments when I remembered my family wasn't here anymore.
It was a living, breathing thing, sitting on my shoulder at all times, whispering about that night over and over again.
I hoped that at least my nights would be easier, but I was slipping from one nightmare into another, and I had no idea how long I would be able to exist like this.
I was hollow. Empty. Devoid of all emotions, desires, needs, and that's what terrified me, because when one stops living for tomorrow, for some sort of a goal, what else is left but to disappear?
What else is left but to let yourself go and rejoin those that have left you far too soon?
My eyes zeroed in on the boxes I hauled five days ago from the attic as I entered the kitchen, hating the sight of them. I fucking hated the sight of everything in this house, yet I couldn't bring myself to touch anything.
My mom's jeans were still laid on top of my parents' bed. My sister's laptop was still open, sitting on her little desk, its battery long gone. But I couldn't bring myself to move any of it. I could barely go into their rooms as it was, not to mention remove anything.
Packing it all up would mean that this wasn't just another nightmare I needed to wake up from. But, one step at a time, as Ingrid would say.
One fucking step at a time.
"Just breathe, Kaira," I told myself. Just fucking breathe.
It's been almost a year since I lost them, yet it sometimes felt as if it was just yesterday that my mom told me she needed to talk to me about something important.
Time was such a weird concept when you had no idea if you wanted to stay or if you wanted to disappear.
But I hoped these small steps I was taking were positive.
I didn't need to do everything today. I didn't even need to pack it all up for several months, but I had to start.
I had to do something with my life, especially after quitting my job in New York City a few months ago because I was unable to even go in, let alone lead an entire team that once upon a time used to rely on me for tough decisions and doing the tasks nobody else wanted to do.
As a financial analyst, I was a beast in my field, but I couldn't pretend to care about the company I worked for when I didn't have my life together.
But I was trying.
Me making this coffee was trying.
Having some groceries in my fridge was me trying.
Pulling out a pan from the cupboard to prepare an omelet was me trying.
Eight months ago I could barely get myself out of bed, and if this wasn't progress I had no idea what was.
Adding some milk to my coffee and lifting the cup up to my lips, I turned around and looked at the boxes again.
I would rather be doing anything else, but I made a promise to myself, to my friend, and to my therapist that today would be the day when I would unpack at least one of these boxes. Today would be the start.
A new beginning.
It wasn't a beginning I ever wanted to have, but it was the beginning I needed, and as I turned back around and focused on the breakfast I had no desire for, I told myself for the millionth time—you are fucking trying. One step at a time.