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I don’t think I’m over things yet. I don’t think I ever will be. But the sun still rises in the morning so I have to at least handle them. The colour cyan is still entirely ruined for me, but at least I jump to happier memories now. I dream about him a lot. But instead of gruesome imagery of his dead body, instead of a lie my mind has told me to deal with the guilt, they’re dreams of him living. I am not a spiritual person – even if that was his ghost, I don’t believe he’s watching me, partially because that does nothing to comfort me. But if he is in some sort of afterlife, I just hope he’s happy. That’s all I want.
I’ve begun having conversations with Shadow about grief, seeing as it’s what he’s known for. They’ve helped. He’s had a lot more time to process things than me, although I suppose he lost even more. The deaths themselves are also similar enough that we both relate – both incredibly young, both brutal and bloody, both something that could have been prevented. Both something that we indirectly caused. I often find that he’s the only one who really understands that. Besides, he’s cheaper than therapy.
This morning, I stood up out of bed and made my way downstairs. After brewing some tea, I heard the fluttering of letters come through the front door and decided to investigate. Rifling through the letters, I found one addressed to me and opened it. I smiled. No more swapping with Vector when we see cops – my new driver’s license had come in the post.