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The Fall Called Grief

by Belinda Wood 4 months ago in depression
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The story-told of grief and loss

There’s a well in my heart. I cant tell you when it formed, and i can barely tell you what lies within. it’s a physical thing, though it does not end on a step or a few metres in. It goes down and down into a dark. the musty edge warns do-not-touch.

it doesn't clearly end, perhaps it’ll be too dangerous to descend.

but, I’ve gone down.

and

down.

have been for months. it wasn't a step of free will, but a stumble of fate.

i slipped over a hole, and ropes have been dropping me down since. let me give you the map, the things you may very see.

First, you fall at the mouth. the first blow tripping your feet. “She. Will. Die”.

the tethers that wrapped around, they don’t feel so secure.

not new to devastation, you trust the training when the walls start to quiver.

you descend a few weeks down. the light from the top, it starts to grey. it’s a setting sun on a cloudy day.

there's a voice through the mud on the walls. “Do you have her last wishes organised? Will she be revived? Let’s. Talk. Palliative”

the rope between your fingers slips and you swing, slam your delicate face into the rocks ahead.

There’s a new sound, a banshee screaming in your ear. You realise, the scream comes from you.

It goes on too long, but eventually subsides. the banshee retreats back into the hole. You can see through the mess of blood and mud sprinkled in your eyes. wiping it away, you’ve calmed.

there is a fear bubbling, but you breathed it off the ledge.

feeling bruised, but not weak, you hold tight to the rope, double lace it around your cracking knuckles.

you descend.

dropping weeks and months at a time, there’s no end to sinking. but, at times, you fall so slow you barely tell you’re going down.

things crawl from the wall. nails try slicing at the rope.

but there’s a light, every now and then.

a crack through the mud, you feel not-so-concerned of the threats, but play with the sun instead.

you slip up, of course, here and there. lose the grip around your knuckle and fall a metre or so. sometimes you fall ten.

you will tell yourself, i am human. at times, it’s okay to fall.

one day, you’re looking up. the light is not obvious these days, but you’re sure you’ll see it soon.

You crane your neck and try to make a game with the creatures you’ve spot.

While looking up, you forget to look down.

a panic packed into a whisper “YouNeedToComeHomeNow”

then its falling and crying and sobbing and calling them and him and her and begging and worries and everything is going toofast and t o o s l o w all at the same time. its a plane booked on the same day and its dirty motels and wondering how it felt to sleep.

its telling friends, but they havent quite lived the descent. they tell you'll be okay. standing in a circle of strangers unable to stop the banshee from crawling up your throat.

telling, demanding, asking, begging, please for more time.

its home at the hospital and her voice, quiet and scared, “am i going to die?”

its holding her hand and its

hearing her scream.

Not a cry, but a scream. It’s a version of horror you never thought you’d meet.

it’s the morphine. Watching as you lose her day-by-day. but she’s not in pain. Was it worth losing the goodbye to ease her fear?

Then, it’s anger. Telling her silent body in bed “don’t you dare. you don't get to give up. not yet.”

it's silence.

“be stronger. don't you leave your children alone”

not even a grunt.

it’s rage and temper.

and

and

and

and

the ropes are cut.

“she dead”

depression

About the author

Belinda Wood

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