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Death is always tragic.
Death of one so young, even more.
It is common knowledge that most people grieve when death arrives. That they blame themselves for their pains. That they find ways to drown out the sorrow using alcohol and cigarettes. That they eventually let it go, moving on.
Even so, it is tragic.
The man was crying. Not loudly. Quietly. Tears streamed down the rough planes of his face, landing silently on the small body in front of him. A bloodied needle lay gently in his hands. His fingers were not clenched. Instead they were relaxed, open, like he was giving the small weapon up to spirits above. He was kneeling on the ground, body as still as an abandoned gravestone. His mind, in that moment, was just there. Just him and the body of his child, the most precious thing in the world.
He did not notice the woman who silently filed out the door, a magnet gripped in her hand.
Don Juan did not grieve that day. Not in the traditional way, at least. Not in a way that people saw.
They saw him freeze. They saw him weep over her body. They saw him step back when the paramedics arrived, still holding the red needle and string in his calloused hands. They offered words of comfort, saw as he responded coldly, calmly, until he snapped, shouting at them with an anger never before seen in the man. They saw how he picked up the body of his little Nikita only an hour after she was pronounced dead, how he told his assistant to begin working on a funeral suit for her even as her body was still warm.
And, being people, they judged. Tutted. Asked each other why he didn’t grieve longer. Wondered why he moved on so quickly. Said that if they were him, they would’ve screamed when they saw what happened, would've cried for longer.
The people did not see many things.
How he kept her room the exact same, bed still messy, stuffed animals still lining the headboard, clothes still thrown hastily in a pile in the corner. Not because he didn’t want to bother with it but because he was worried he would lose what remained of her if he moved on.
How he avoided mirrors, could no longer look into his own brown eyes. Not because he was afraid of his reflection but because he was afraid of who he might see behind it.
How every night he would pray, go down on his knees and put his hands together. How he would beg to be taken instead, to have his Nikita brought back to life, even if it meant he had to go to Hell.
How he would hold up a needle to his eye and wonder if he stabbed it deep enough, would he be able to forget.
All they saw was him working. Him moving on.
Time passed. People changed their tune.
This time they thought about how he had changed. Wondered why he was so angry and hostile and distant. The ones who didn’t know were confused and hurt. Some perhaps even thought he had always been that way, a harsh and unstable man. The ones who did know scoffed with disdain, said he should have gotten over his daughter's death a long time ago.
Very few people were empathetic to him, and of those few none of them helped him manage his pain.
People process grief in many ways.
Some cry with it, hold it in their arms before letting it vanish into the clouds.
Some put it in their soul, never truly releasing it, show it in their faces and the way they walk.
And some, like Don Juan, push it deep into their heart. Grip it tightly, so that no matter how much they try to ignore it will never truly fade. Use it as a weapon, as a judge, as a promise they can never fulfill.
Death is always tragic.
Death of one so young, even more.
Don Juan never forgave himself. People continued to whisper about him, saying such things that people do. He didn’t notice.
It was only towards the end of his life that he was able to let it go. Was able to let the pain buried deep in his chest like a blade finally dislodge. To let his grief drift up into the heavens. Up towards his little Nikita.
He followed it minutes later. Found her and all the ones he had ever lost.
And together, clasping his little one’s hand in his own, he watched it dissipate into the sky.