![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
you promised you'd see me in the morning
Oct. 8th, 2024 09:45 am22 years ago your life forever changed.
There was chaos you weren't privy to happening on the floor below you involving hysterics that, looking back seemed forced or like this was some play being rehearsed where everyone knew their lines and places and you had no clue.
You wondered why are there so many police cruisers outside?
You wondered why are there paramedics and EMTs? did someone get hurt or die? who?
You stood there looking out your brother's bedroom window at all the chaos on this typical October morning, the chill of the early morning colder still for some reason. Maybe it's your imagination. Maybe it was because of how drafty the house was. Something was off but 22 years ago you were 10 years old and though you knew something was off you couldn't place what. Even if you could, could you have verbalized such thoughts or feelings? No. Back then you weren't gifted in the art of writing. You drew pictures with lines and pencil crayons, not with letters and words.
Despite it being a sunny Tuesday morning, your grandparents weren't going to visit because of the mystery rash no one knew the reason for (at that point, because you wouldn't get the results until a few days later) and no one wanted them to fall sick. It wouldn't have been a death sentence but it would've been worse for them. There was sniffling coming from your parents' bedroom. Out into the hallway you went to investigate further. It was too early to be calling people, wasn't it? Who would you be calling anyway?
"No, Pop Pop it's me..." said through what sounded like tears through the gap in the door. you stood there on the landing to the stairs trying to look through the crack. A shiver ran up your spine then like chills spread through my body now because even though the visuals of these memories are very faded and worn, the dialogue, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles, and all the chaos happening downstairs lives on so vivid I can feel the floor below my feet shudder like it's happening right here and right now.
Your eldest brother appeared in the hallway, eyes puffy as he sniffled and though you asked him what was wrong he didn't tell you anything. Maybe he hadn't heard because you're so soft-spoken; maybe he had but didn't feel like answering. Just looked at you instead with a look of sadness before taking his leave and heading downstairs.
So you follow him. You deserve to know what's going on in your own house, right? If there is anything going on, which it sounds like there might be. Deep voices belonging to men in uniform resounding from the foyer. The sounds of things moving and scraping the floor, getting caught on area rugs, on carpet, bumping into other objects. Too many things being jostled around for it to be a simple furniture rearrangement.
Something big is happening.
22 years later you'll wish you hadn't followed him. You'll wish you'd stayed within the confines of your bedroom where everything was safe and okay and you could cocoon yourself in blankets and go back to sleep, because this was all a dream, right? Or a nightmare, really. If you go to sleep in your dreams and wake up then you wake up for real. Right?
Right?
22 years later you'll wish you could go back in time to hug your 10 year old self and tell them that even though it'll feel like you're drowning without water and your lungs are trying to fill with air and that air feels oh so heavy...you will still be able to breathe.
So breathe. Breathe through the tears and the heartache and the pressure threatening to crush your chest. You'll make it. You always make it. Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.
That's a Les Mis song quote. But I know you know that.
You know you can't do that but you'll wish you could. You'll wish you could shield that child and stop them from going down those stairs but you can't because the past is over and done with, those choices and outcomes permanently etched in Time Itself, an indelible stain no amount of scrubbing or bleach can white out completely.
When you think about it that's what grief is, isn't it? The loss of that person is an indelible stain on your soul that fades with time but will never ever disappear. On certain days it's darker and certain times of year it looks like the mark appeared yesterday, without any fading to be seen.
Either way you're going to find out. You either rip the bandaid off now or you leave it and deal with it later and it'll hurt worse.
So you head downstairs and there is nothing but chaos as people in uniforms swarm around the doorway to the living room. The front door is open. There are loud voices you can't distinguish one from the other. And when you make it to the bottom you are whisked away to the kitchen. By your brother. Your big brother who wants to make this all okay again for your sake. But he can't. He can't and you in the future can't and no one can ever make this better for you.
You'll be able to start healing but it won't be until 22 years later.
You'll feel sorry about that.
You'll feel sorry for not being able to go back and help your younger self now. For not being able to help you heal. To deal with these things. And you'll feel especially sorry that the person who should've helped you couldn't.
This is not the time nor the day to talk about her.
Now your brother tells you that you shouldn't see this but you're so curious. No one answers your questions except for him, where he says that something happened and Father passed out. But the people here can help him. They'll make everything right again. Right?
"Right."
You pray to God to save your dad. It's the last prayer you ever send because as you'll learn, prayer does nothing. Or maybe you're worshipping the wrong deities. Who fucking knows. You don't and you won't and maybe no one knows. All you'll know is what happens next.
The silence hangs heavy when everyone filters out. All the furniture in the living room is pushed out into the dining room. A lamp is on the floor where the coffee table should be. The stand fan no longer does so, and is broken in the foyer on one of the computer chairs. Out of the way. It'll never stand right again and will eventually be discarded and replaced.
(Which will be a theme throughout your life.)
What feels like hours later you get a phone call that makes the settled dust fly into the air again, caught up in some twister. Tranquil lakes become raging, angry seas in your mind as your emotions are sent into a perpetual hurricane. All you can think, as your brother delivers the news to you is you promised you'd see me in the morning.
Now I'll never see you again.
There was chaos you weren't privy to happening on the floor below you involving hysterics that, looking back seemed forced or like this was some play being rehearsed where everyone knew their lines and places and you had no clue.
You wondered why are there so many police cruisers outside?
You wondered why are there paramedics and EMTs? did someone get hurt or die? who?
You stood there looking out your brother's bedroom window at all the chaos on this typical October morning, the chill of the early morning colder still for some reason. Maybe it's your imagination. Maybe it was because of how drafty the house was. Something was off but 22 years ago you were 10 years old and though you knew something was off you couldn't place what. Even if you could, could you have verbalized such thoughts or feelings? No. Back then you weren't gifted in the art of writing. You drew pictures with lines and pencil crayons, not with letters and words.
Despite it being a sunny Tuesday morning, your grandparents weren't going to visit because of the mystery rash no one knew the reason for (at that point, because you wouldn't get the results until a few days later) and no one wanted them to fall sick. It wouldn't have been a death sentence but it would've been worse for them. There was sniffling coming from your parents' bedroom. Out into the hallway you went to investigate further. It was too early to be calling people, wasn't it? Who would you be calling anyway?
"No, Pop Pop it's me..." said through what sounded like tears through the gap in the door. you stood there on the landing to the stairs trying to look through the crack. A shiver ran up your spine then like chills spread through my body now because even though the visuals of these memories are very faded and worn, the dialogue, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles, and all the chaos happening downstairs lives on so vivid I can feel the floor below my feet shudder like it's happening right here and right now.
Your eldest brother appeared in the hallway, eyes puffy as he sniffled and though you asked him what was wrong he didn't tell you anything. Maybe he hadn't heard because you're so soft-spoken; maybe he had but didn't feel like answering. Just looked at you instead with a look of sadness before taking his leave and heading downstairs.
So you follow him. You deserve to know what's going on in your own house, right? If there is anything going on, which it sounds like there might be. Deep voices belonging to men in uniform resounding from the foyer. The sounds of things moving and scraping the floor, getting caught on area rugs, on carpet, bumping into other objects. Too many things being jostled around for it to be a simple furniture rearrangement.
Something big is happening.
22 years later you'll wish you hadn't followed him. You'll wish you'd stayed within the confines of your bedroom where everything was safe and okay and you could cocoon yourself in blankets and go back to sleep, because this was all a dream, right? Or a nightmare, really. If you go to sleep in your dreams and wake up then you wake up for real. Right?
Right?
22 years later you'll wish you could go back in time to hug your 10 year old self and tell them that even though it'll feel like you're drowning without water and your lungs are trying to fill with air and that air feels oh so heavy...you will still be able to breathe.
So breathe. Breathe through the tears and the heartache and the pressure threatening to crush your chest. You'll make it. You always make it. Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.
That's a Les Mis song quote. But I know you know that.
You know you can't do that but you'll wish you could. You'll wish you could shield that child and stop them from going down those stairs but you can't because the past is over and done with, those choices and outcomes permanently etched in Time Itself, an indelible stain no amount of scrubbing or bleach can white out completely.
When you think about it that's what grief is, isn't it? The loss of that person is an indelible stain on your soul that fades with time but will never ever disappear. On certain days it's darker and certain times of year it looks like the mark appeared yesterday, without any fading to be seen.
Either way you're going to find out. You either rip the bandaid off now or you leave it and deal with it later and it'll hurt worse.
So you head downstairs and there is nothing but chaos as people in uniforms swarm around the doorway to the living room. The front door is open. There are loud voices you can't distinguish one from the other. And when you make it to the bottom you are whisked away to the kitchen. By your brother. Your big brother who wants to make this all okay again for your sake. But he can't. He can't and you in the future can't and no one can ever make this better for you.
You'll be able to start healing but it won't be until 22 years later.
You'll feel sorry about that.
You'll feel sorry for not being able to go back and help your younger self now. For not being able to help you heal. To deal with these things. And you'll feel especially sorry that the person who should've helped you couldn't.
This is not the time nor the day to talk about her.
Now your brother tells you that you shouldn't see this but you're so curious. No one answers your questions except for him, where he says that something happened and Father passed out. But the people here can help him. They'll make everything right again. Right?
"Right."
You pray to God to save your dad. It's the last prayer you ever send because as you'll learn, prayer does nothing. Or maybe you're worshipping the wrong deities. Who fucking knows. You don't and you won't and maybe no one knows. All you'll know is what happens next.
The silence hangs heavy when everyone filters out. All the furniture in the living room is pushed out into the dining room. A lamp is on the floor where the coffee table should be. The stand fan no longer does so, and is broken in the foyer on one of the computer chairs. Out of the way. It'll never stand right again and will eventually be discarded and replaced.
(Which will be a theme throughout your life.)
What feels like hours later you get a phone call that makes the settled dust fly into the air again, caught up in some twister. Tranquil lakes become raging, angry seas in your mind as your emotions are sent into a perpetual hurricane. All you can think, as your brother delivers the news to you is you promised you'd see me in the morning.
Now I'll never see you again.
