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Death.
The last straw, as everyone says. The final flutter of the eyes and zap of energy in the brain before it all goes dark. Before your soul is crumbled to dust or reborn into someone or something new or sent to heaven or hell or whatever you believe.
Death, the last door you will ever go through.
For me, death was an open door which led to even more open doors, because Life didn’t want to let me go.
Life clings to me, it suffocates me.
Every time I think I’m dead, every time I believe I’ve reached that final door, Life is there, with its smile of gold.
And I hate it.
I hate every body I’m placed in, I hate the threat that hangs above my head, I hate the very thing that keeps Life and I in limbo.
And even though I hate, I also grieve.
I stand before the mirror in my own bathroom, I look into the blue eyes that aren’t mine (they’re supposed to be red ) and I study the little birthmark below the lip that isn’t mine (where are my freckles?), and the long black hair that isn’t mine falls into my eyes (I had short, red hair).
This isn’t me.
And I remember I haven’t been me in a long time.
My heart aches for that body, my body. I want it back. I want to feel my own skin, covered in scrapes and scars from when I was fourteen and Mikell watched me fall off my bike and all he did was laugh.
I want back my body, the one where I would scratch the skin of my arms raw when I was anxious and my mother would swat at my hand and say ‘now Elias you know better’.
I want back my body, the skinny one that my dad would always say was too weak to hold a rifle correctly. I proved him wrong, Mikell had taught me how to shoot.
My body. So I can feel related to TJ, who I know is my brother, but who feels so very disconnected from me.
I hate my (his) eyes, I hate my (his) skin, I hate my (his) hair. I see too well. I’m far too tanned. My hair tickles my neck and makes me want to break down, because it shouldn’t be there.
Grief.
A feeling I thought could only be felt when someone else dies.
But apparently I was wrong.
I mourn myself, selfish.
I ache to look in a mirror and see me. Not another person who’s supposed to be me. Not another person wearing a glittering amulet that is supposed to be me, but is really just my prison.
I am weary, tired.
I have lost myself to some stupid mistake when I was far too young.
Sprinting through the halls of the facility at age twenty six…. Or thirty, I can’t remember, had been the last seconds as myself. Before the spear had pierced my heart, before the amulet had stolen my soul.
And today I regret not properly cherishing my life beforehand. I regret not being me. I regret hating my body some days for being skinny and pale, I regret overworking it some days to the point I couldn’t enjoy life with it.
Regret and grief.
Selfish.
I stand outside the door of Mikell’s place now. I hate Mikell. But he’s the only brother left who I can confide in. TJ, well, TJ wouldn’t understand what I want to say to Mikell anyway. I can’t talk to Dad, he is either dead or too far away. Maybe he’s more selfish than I am.
The door opens and there’s my brother. I can’t remember the last time I saw him, my memories are like blurs, whether that be from alcohol or my immortality, I wouldn’t know.
Even then, he looks older, more tired, compared to the last image I can conjure up of him in my mind. His white hair is longer, messier, there’s more stubble on his chin and he looks like he hasn’t changed out of his shirt and shorts in days.
It’s almost sad.
“Elias.” Is all he says, the second his eyes land on my necklace.
Another spear to the heart.
I am my prison.
“Mikell.” I respond.
“What are you doing here?” He asks, opening the door a bit more.
What am I doing here? Why do I have to make Mikell carry the burden of my issues?
“I wanted to ask you a question.” I haven’t even noticed this body’s voice yet. It’s raspy and sad. How very fitting.
Mikell sighs and turns around, motioning for me to follow, “Sit down.”
And I do. I sit down. Mikell returns with cups of tea, he hands me one. I take it and sit it down. I’m not thirsty.
We are silent for a moment. Or two. Or several. I’m not sure.
“Mikell.” I repeat, I haven’t said his name in a while, for a long time it’s been ‘O5-6’, but saying it now brings back the taste of disdain it used to leave on my tongue, “Is it- is it okay to grieve oneself?”
“What do you mean?” He asks, taking a sip from his mug, leaning back into his seat. He looks so exhausted.
I ponder his question. I’m not sure what I mean. Is it grief or guilt or regret I’m feeling? I’m not completely sure. But the feeling of loss of myself decays me from the inside out, I don’t know how to put it into words.
“This isn’t my body.” I say. Mikell makes a noise, one that says ‘yeah, I know already’ .
“And I- God, I don’t-” I rub my hands on my face, take a few breaths, “I feel gross in every body I’m in. I miss who I was, I want that feeling back. I don’t feel like me. And it hurts. So bad.”
Mikell sits his drink down, shrugs, “Elias, I really don’t know what you want me to do. I’m not in your situation.”
I squeeze my hands into fists, my nails dig into my palms. It hurts. “I wanna know. Answer my question. Is it okay to mourn myself? To miss my body that’s long gone, even though I’m- I’m alive? Am I just a selfish asshole?”
“Of course you’re a selfish asshole.” Mikell replies, “You’re Elias fucking Shaw.” He sighs, “But- to answer your question. It’s fine, I guess. I don’t know your situation, but I think I know what you mean.”
“You’re the worst.” I say. Then I consider Mikell’s words, “What do you mean ‘you know what I mean’?”
Mikell stares out the window, “It’s not- it’s not the same way you feel. I still have my body thank God, but,” He purses his lips, “I feel like I lost a lot of life I could have used being happy. And I mourn that. I grieve for a happy me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, so stop being a dick and thinking you’re the only person in the whole world with these feelings.”
“You shut up!” I shout, angry. Mikell just laughs, like when I used to fall off my bicycle.
“What I’m saying, Eli,” he says, “don't be afraid to grieve yourself. We all do it. It’s natural, especially if it’s been really traumatic. You get a selfish free card. Especially since your case is a bit… ah, different.”
“Fuck off.”
“Fine, don’t take my advice.” Mikell shrugs.
We sit in silence again. It still aches. I still want to be me. I’m not fixed. I wanted this conversation to fix me, I wanted it so bad. I wanted the last person who I somewhat cared about to be able to string enough words together to repair me, make me feel like me again.
Big brothers are useless, aren’t they?
But I remember what my therapist told me, that healing takes time. And maybe, just maybe, learning to mourn myself will be a step in the right direction.
“Thank you.” I say and stand up, staring at my still full mug of tea, “I just needed to talk.”
“Oh so back to Site-19?” Mikell asks, “Well damn, I’m just some usable device for when you need to vent, huh?”
“Shut up Mikell,” I say, “You said I could ask a question!”
He shrugs again, “Eh, you’re right.”
I walk to the door and open it, the sun beats down on me once again. I haven’t felt this sun in years. This was the old house where my family lived, until everything fell apart. This had been my home for years, and now it’s hardly recognizable, aside from the summer sun. I miss this home. I miss my body. I miss happiness and hanging out with TJ, and Mom’s dinners when she wasn’t busy, Claire's toys littering the ground, and Mikell teaching me how to shoot.
I miss it all.
Grieve myself.
Before I leave, I turn to Mikell, who has stood up and is switching the channels on the TV, “Thank you.”
“No problem.” Is all he says, ignoring me probably. Whatever. He’s stupid anyways.
I return back to my home with a hollow feeling in my chest still, but maybe I can heal.