Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Something, maybe, that had been hiding for a long time now.
Something stronger and harder to accept. Harder still to express.
Sometime between smashing each of the bottles and the plate and a small printer exploding plastic pieces around me, it finally rose up from the well buried deep inside.
The intensity knocked me to my knees as a wail escaped me, nearly getting swallowed up by the music, but not quite.
Here it was.
At long last.
The grief so strong it shook along my bones like fault lines.
The tears that had been absent since the moment the voice in my ear told me that he was gone, that I would never see him again.
I curled down toward my thighs as the sobs racked my system, a sound so loud and endless that it scared me that now that I started, I might never be able to stop.
Suddenly, Brooks appeared in front of me, lowering down to his knees as well, reaching for me, and holding me tightly against his chest as the tears poured, as the grief purged.
Brooks said nothing.
I wasn’t sure if I would have heard him even if he did.
But he held me.
His hands ran up and down my spine.
And he just let me grieve.
Like he somehow knew this was exactly what I’d been needing all along.
It was not a pretty cry, either.
It was snotty and raw.
But slowly over time, the ragged sobs became weak wails, and then, soft sniffles as I finally drained the long pent-up grief out of me.
Once I was done, Brooks silently pulled me back up to my feet and led me to the door.
Once outside, he reached to remove my teary goggles, wiping my cheeks with his fingers.
“Better?” he asked, voice soft.
“You knew,” I said, still sniffling hard, knowing I probably looked a wreck, but there was also nothing to be done about it right that second anyway.
“Yeah, baby,” he agreed, tucking my hair behind my ears. “You needed to let it out. I had a feeling this might be what finally brought it up.”
He wasn’t wrong.
A lot of those videos I’d watched online about rage rooms had people screaming, then breaking off into loud sobs as well.
Like something about the expression of rage finally allowed them to process what was buried underneath.
“There’s a bathroom right there,” he said, turning me, and pointing toward the door, allowing me to go and try to put myself somewhat back together before we walked past the front desk.
I mean, I was sure I wasn’t the first person to break down in this place. And since there were cameras in all the rooms, I imagined they’d seen it all, and had long-since become immune to it.
So I blew my nose and splashed some cold water on my face before making my way back out, and letting Brooks lead me to the bike.
“You okay?” he asked, rubbing my lower back.
“Yes. And… no. I don’t know. I feel like I should feel… lighter or something.”
“Maybe you just need to talk about it,” he suggested.
“Maybe,” I agreed, falling into step with him as he started in the direction of a small park across the street, the playground equipment abandoned at this time of day.
“You used to fucking swing on these endlessly,” Brooks said as he stopped at the swings. “I remember Clay would keep giving you five-minute warnings, but never had the heart to force you to get off.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, getting teary-eyed again as I sat down, and pushed off, pumping my legs as Brooks took the swing beside me, but stayed still. “He was always probably a little too soft with me,” I said.
“He was trying to be both parents,” Brooks said, shrugging. “Can’t be easy to be the heavy and the soft at the same time.”
“Yeah. Especially when he was barely a grown-up himself.”
“He never minded,” Brooks said. “He loved the fuck out of you.”
“It was a mutual feeling,” I agreed, sniffling as I pumped my legs harder, feeling the whoosh of my stomach as the swing pulled backward. “Sometimes, I don’t know what’s worse: the shock of what happened, or the pain of what never will.
“I mean, what is Christmas going to be like, y’know? Will I still see things and want to buy them for him? And who will I go looking at Christmas lights with? And watch movies with? And bake for? Who is going to be with me on Christmas Day? Or Thanksgiving? New Years? My birthday?
“And, just, other things. Like… I’ll never have a niece or nephew. I’ll never get to see Clay as a husband or a dad. I won’t get to laugh at him gagging while changing a dirty diaper. Or get pissy with me when I buy his kids the loudest, most obnoxious toys on their birthdays. I won’t get to see what he looks like as he gets old. I won’t… there’s just so many won’ts and can’ts and nevers.”