Mourn Me (For James MUAHAHA)
Leave a âMourn Meâ in my ask, and Iâll write a drabble about my character mourning your characterâs death.
It's too bright.
Remus sits in the middle of his backyard, the one where he spent so many afternoons as a kid, running around, kicking rocks, climbing. Fleeing home seemed to be the only sensible thing to do. He thought he needed space, but now that he's here, with all the space in the world, it's not any better.
The woods stare back at him, taunting. The trees have no leaves this time of year, but they stand tall against the beaming sun, stretching across the landscape. The grass is a vivid shade of green, he can hear the distant trickle of the creek nearby his family home. His dad sits inside the kitchen, stoic. The birds have the audacity to chirp.
It's early in the afternoon.
They never tell you about mourning like this. They tell you about the gloomy days, the endless nights, the sobbing, the despair, the rain and thunder of it all. They don't tell about the 2pm in the afternoon. They don't tell you about the overwhelming emptiness. They don't tell you it doesn't stop hurting when you're sitting in fresh grass, with the sun beaming down on you, in a perfect winter day. They don't tell you about how it almost feels ridiculous to mourn like this.
It's too bright and he can't think of anything else but James. The sun is hot enough that sweat starts gathering on the back of his neck, and he can only think of James. Pebbles from the yard dig into his palms, a gush of wind cools his skin, the birds chirp again. James, James, James.
And it does feel ridiculous. When he's sitting in the sun, and for the first time since he got the news, the air rushes out of his lungs, he feels pathetic. There's some kind of twisted irony in finding yourself in the middle of a cheery Bob Ross painting and, for the first time since it happened, actually feeling the weight of losing your best friend.
When he sobs, the birds keep chirping. He's gasping for air, his vision blurs, and the trees are still tall and beautiful. He's on the ground, crying, and the sun continues to beam down on him, unbothered. There are no storms, no black clothes and black umbrellas, no foggy cemetery. Mourning wraps its bony arms around him and squeezes, squeezes, squeezes until there's no more wiggle room, and it will not ease up again, not for a few weeks, months, years. Mourning will dig its curled nails into his chest and make room for itself there until it's all he can feel, all he can be, any way he can move. Its wrinkly, ugly face will be there, looming over his shoulder, on the quiet nights as well as the loud, bright days.
Mourning is the sound of his hopeless wails echoing into a cheerful forest. It's the shake of his shoulders and the pounding growing in his head. It's his dad's tea cup clinking against the table as he quietly sets it down, hearing his son's cries and sighing in sorrow. It's blue skies and leafless tress.
Mourning will ease up, one day. Its hold will soften, its hands will let go; a couple days and its arms will lend enough room for a laugh, a couple months and its face won't be all he sees. Pain is temporary, Remus tries to remind himself, but it doesn't even matter, he doesn't want to stop feeling it today. He wants to exist with it.
If he can't feel his best friend's arms anymore, maybe he can take comfort in grief's.
