Humpty Dumpty

He knows there are countless metaphors and works of art that explain grief and death, and he knows they’re meant to inspire growth and understanding, but nothing he’s studied or overthought or sought out as an answer has ever made sense to him. Nothing has filled the hole that her absence left. Nothing triggers the acceptance and growth he’s read so much about. His life is still tumbling down and the Earth is still shattering. He tries his best to dumb it down for himself, but grief is riddled with nuance, and he’s never been all too quick on the uptake.

He doesn’t understand how he can sometimes forget her best friend’s name. Or how he goes hours, days, weeks without thinking of her, and finds no issue in forgetting. Or how sometimes the thought of her turns his entire body to lead and the tears he tries his best to overcome glue his eyes shut. It just doesn’t make sense.

So he does his best to understand. He does his best to grieve properly and create a nurturing environment for life after. He does his best to be someone she would recognize despite not being able to recognize himself most days. He does his best.

He’s found a way to put his feelings into words without actually saying anything that matters. But it’s a dangerous line between compartmentalizing and grieving, or at least he thinks it is; there’s still a lot he doesn’t really know. He’s read about trauma responses and how many spoons it takes to live a fulfilling day, and so he nods along to himself and develops a system to track his grief and growth. It’s an absolutely, totally, completely, one hundred percent healthy thing to do.

He stands in front of his mind’s eye and he produces a stack of bricks. He needs to build a home, to build a shelter for his feelings. Over time he’s able to get walls constructed, but he forgets a door and has to destroy the entire thing. Sometimes, all he can do is sit and watch as the days pass and the bricks pile up and everything he had started to build starts to rattle at the foundation. Nothing he’s built so far has stayed upright for longer than a couple weeks, but he keeps trying. He keeps working and pushing and grieving and growing.

But, sometimes, the effort isn’t enough; the plan doesn’t pan out the way it’s supposed to on paper. Despite the best efforts, some things still hit you like a ton of bricks. A sudden realization that weighs you down and drags you under. That’s her favorite color. That dog looks exactly like the one she has on her sweater. That’s the song she plays when she’s trying to focus. A simple, “Oh, crap,” moment that trips you up and lays you flat on your ass. Sometimes, it’s as simple as remembering she is past tense.

Was. Was, was, was. It was today.

That still doesn’t feel right.

It is today. Terrible, horrible, no good, very bad today. Sad and dreary and traumatic today. Don’t-wanna-get-outta-bed-and-face-myself today.

Except it’s not.

The sun is shining and the world is turning and the day moves along like every other day before today. He talks and he works and he readies himself for the party tonight that he’ll spend dodging the bricks that the day tries to drop on his head. He’ll talk and he’ll smile and he’ll convince today that it doesn’t control him. Sooner than he’s truly comfortable with, he finds himself walking through the threshold of today into tonight, and the room is buzzing with music and laughter and drink.

He’s doing better than last year, and the year before that. But, eventually, the day catches up to him and the startling realization weighs on his shoulders and presses solid against his chest. The friends by his side look at him from the corners of their eyes and he leans in when someone throws an arm over his shoulders. The faces in the crowd turn away in confusion and he feels shunned, but his feet are glued to the carpet and his ass is strapped to the couch.

He wallows in the pressure. He kicks around bricks in his head. He stares at the wall in front of himself so hard he swears he can see two small indents forming at his eye level.

She is. She was. She is. She was.

He is. He is. He is.

A small weight removes itself from him as he lets someone take the cup from his hands. Another small weight lifts as he’s pulled to his feet, the arm still wrapped around his shoulders. Again as he’s steered through the party. Again as he’s sat down on the steps outside, a reassuring pat sinking into his shoulder as the arm is removed and the body leaves.

The outside reminds him that he’s not breathing the way he recognizes. He thinks of her favorite song. He thinks of the dog on her sweater. He pinches himself and is again reminded that today is not the today he remembers. Today is almost over and with it goes the weight of the past tense.

He releases the breath he’s finally capable of holding and lifts his head to face the night. It’s quiet and the grass flashes with washed out colors from the party’s lights behind him. The music continues and he feels his heartbeat holding steady with whatever’s playing. The weight creeps down his shoulders and settles in his stomach and, just like he found today seeping into tonight, he finds tonight slurring into later. His feet are glued to the ground. His ass is strapped to the step.

He uncoils the weight in his stomach. He stacks the bricks up nice and neat. He stares at the grass until he’s convinced himself the blades have grown half an inch.

She is. She was. She is. She was.

He is. He is. He is.

“I could paint your nails if you want,” she whispers, like the offer is a secret just for the two of them.

He stiffens despite the softness of her words, absentmindedly starting to pick at the already chipped blue polish on his left pinky. The pressure of her arm against his draws the weight out of his stomach and lodges it in his throat.

“Uh...”

“You don’t have to let me,” she corrects, her voice still soft. “You just always have that one finger painted. Figured you might like to have ‘em all done.”

He doesn’t try to respond again, deciding to just lean into her presence, deciding to ignore the startling how-long-has-she-been-here that’s begun to crawl around behind his eyes. Right now, he can only recognize her as a friend of a friend. Someone he’s picked for a team at one party or another. Someone he’s sent a screenshot of someone else’s homework.

“Rachel,” she supplies, just as soft.

“Bay.”

“I know,” she adds quietly, speaking mostly to herself. Her arm disconnects from his and wraps itself around his shoulders to pull his body into hers.

He nods.

“Cody went in for some water,” she continues, one of her hands finding his. “Asked me to sit with you for a minute.”

He nods again.

“Arc went to find the team. Says yous are leaving.”

Another nod.

“Day said he’d break something and get us all kicked out if you wanted.”

He shakes his head this time.

“Yeah,” she laughs quietly, her voice still soft and comforting. “Cody slapped him for that.”

She stops talking after that, her close proximity and even breathing slowly forcing his chest to rise and fall to the same pattern. The world is a lot clearer than it was however long ago. The half-detangled weight in his throat is moved to her hand, and she holds it steady. He sits up a bit, still allowing himself to be held, and slowly blinks himself back to reality.

“Did anyone get it on video?” he whispers.

She snorts, tries to stifle her laugh. “Shut up.”

He squeezes her hand and turns away from the grass to shoot her a small smile.

“You just got me talking, you sure you want me to shut up again?

She elbows him lightly.

“Nice to have you back, B.”

“Yeah...” he trails off with a sigh.

They sit quietly, the party lights still flashing and their words hanging loosely in the night air. It’s not the first time he’s been babysat on the outskirts of a party. It’s not the first time Rachel has forced her hands through cracks in the walls to pull him back into his body. They both know it won’t be the last, either.

He can’t make out the song playing in the house behind them, but he likes the beat. She pulls him further into her hold, practically forcing him into her lap.

“You’re okay, Bay,” she whispers to the grass. “Always.”

He hums his reply to the steps.

“We mean that ya’know,” she tacks on after his unenthused answer. “All of us. Always.”

The silence comes crawling back and he tucks himself safely back inside his head. Her arm stays draped around his shoulders and his hand rests gently in hers as she cradles and shares the weight of today. He straightens out the pile of bricks in front of him, but makes no effort to build. He’ll deal with that tomorrow.

The silence comes crawling back and he tucks himself safely back inside his head. Her arm stays draped around his shoulders and his hand rests gently in hers as she cradles and shares the weight of today. He straightens out the pile of bricks, but makes no effort to build. He’ll deal with that tomorrow.

Today is almost over.

Today is so fucking far away.

The colors dancing on the grass brighten momentarily and the unrecognizable song seeps further into the night through the briefly opened front door. Someone settles into his other side as the bass line drones back into a hum. A cold water bottle is pressed into his free hand and he finally allows himself to exhale fully. His chest hurts and his heart feels tight, but there’s a familiar hand wrapped loosely around his wrist, and Rachel still holds a firm grasp on his other hand and her share of the weight, and he can breathe. He’s okay.

He tears his eyes away from the grass and forces his arm to drag the water bottle closer to his face, only pausing when a hand comes to unscrew the cap. He downs half the bottle in one go, feeling more grounded when he lowers the bottle to quietly gulp air instead. He didn’t realize how painful his heartbeat had become until the cool water travels down his throat and into his body, the icy feel of it smoothing out the last of the solidity of the day’s weight.

They don’t let him stay on the steps much longer. Rachel pulls him to his feet, her touch just as gentle as it was earlier, but there’s a forcefulness behind her actions. He will stand up. He will join the group again. He will move on. He will be okay.

The front door opens again and stays open, bodies shuffling out and bringing noise with them. Arc must’ve told the boys to meet outside. He can’t really make out what anyone is saying, choosing to focus on the weight of Rachel’s hand in his and the steadying count he’s taken up in the furthest corner of his mind. He greets them with a vacant nod. Rachel leaves his side with a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder and steps towards the doorway. Cody—the person attached to the hand around his wrist—entwines their hands and starts to lead him down the walkway away from the house.

Day and Orin are wrestling weakly in the grass, dew marking their clothes in patches. They unhand each other and roll to their feet when they see Cody and him heading for the sidewalk. Arc cements himself to his unoccupied side, his arm settling over his shoulder and his hand squeezing the back of Cody’s neck.

“Rach said Mohammad’s on his way to get the girls,” Arc says in greeting. “She’s gonna call if there’s a change in plan.”

“They’re all good then?” Cody asks.

“Yeah. Fey’s running the table and Maddie’s networking some juniors for whatever committee she’s recruiting for this week.”

“Sounds about right,” Cody replies with a soft laugh.

Arc laughs softly with him, leans his head to press against his temple. “And how’s by Bay?”

He leans into Arc’s touch, almost trips the three of them as he redistributes his weight. He thinks back to the heaviness from earlier, the grief, bad, today that he still feels. He shrugs. Says, “Bay’s okay,” and leaves it at that.

--- An excerpt from the first chapter of "To Build A Home", a book I haven't finished writing yet.