You are quiet all day. Your friends know what's wrong, but they don't know what to do. Your eyes are rather puffy and red from all the crying. You've been wearing black for almost the entire week already, and you'd never thought that black could bring some solace to what you are feeling now. It seems to amaze you that you find yourself wearing so much of that colour, the colour that used to depress you slightly in the past. The emptiness in you seems to well up and drag you in.

You don't feel like you don't know anything anymore. The world should've stopped. It should've stopped the moment.... Tears are welling up now. You're willing everything within you now to let them show. You've dried up all your prayers. You don't know what to say to Him anymore. You know that it's in times like these, you should trust Him more. But you don't want to feel. Or rather, you can't be bothered anymore.

You feel her sit down next to you. Brushing her long hair aside, she clasps her hands on her lap. "Hey hun." She offers you a small smile. "How are you holding up?" You don't trust your voice, opting to shrug your shoulders instead. She's another mourner. Another person left behind to sort this shit out. Another widower. you have never seen her tears, but you can sense them somewhere behind her worldwise eyes. Together, you sit together under the shade of the trees. It's not like you didn't see it coming. In fact, you expected it even. It's just that....

You hadn't heard the news. You were too busy being you. Until that night, that warm summer night, you finally heard. He's gone! He's gone! They all screamed in unison. You don't believe it. You look at the other news, they all say the same thing. And you can't believe you had let it slipped you by.

All over, the widows mourn. She slips her hand over your smaller ones. It's a warm summers' day, but you feel nothing but a biting cold that gnaws at your bones. You feel weary, drained of everything. "It gets better, hun. It always does." You hear her say softly as the wind brushes against the trees. You let the tear fall. It's nothing but a small whisper, but you hope that the wind carries it to the heavens above where you know he is. "Does it? Does it really get better?"

Labels: Mourning, Short stories