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There truly is nothing left, is there?
It's not like Colt has never grieved before. He had grieved his biological parents, yearned for them to just even look at him. He'd grieved Bull after being adopted by Pam, wishing that he'd own up to his bullshit instead of leaving him to be the "man of the house".
But he has only ever grieved the living.
He could go see Belle or Sam anytime. Even if it'd only be in interrogation rooms or prison cells. Even if it'd never go the way he'd want it to. He could go see Bull, but it's not as if he wants to anymore.
Shelly isn't anywhere.
He lays in their bed. Now just his. His and his alone. He's been rotting away beneath these sheets for weeks now.
He can't accept this. He can't, he wont.
The park. His spouse. What they called a distraction to him. Now a lone grave that Colt couldn't bring himself to even visit.
He couldn't see her like that. He refused. He can't. Surely, surely, she'll find a way. No. She's dead. Colt can't say those words, no, no. Dead and Shelly did not go together. They couldn't. Surely not?
"Passed away" is what they were saying. It was easier on the throat, easier on the tongue. "Put to rest" is what they all preferred. The media said she was no longer among them.
Colt doesn't know what to say. How to put it in a way that doesn't make him gag.
Colt can't bring himself to cry. He can't do... Anything.
There's nothing to do. There's no point in doing anything when she isn't...
He grips what remains of her, a pale, lavender shirt. It's all he has. It's all she is now. It wrinkles beneath his firm grip, being shaped by it. In the perfect world, it wouldn't. There'd be a solid, firm form beneath the shirt. Warmth would come from it, and the body wearing it would gently turn to face him.
"She wouldn't wanna see you like this." His friends told. "She'd want you to move on, too."
Who the fuck were they to know what his wife would have wanted? And sure, they were probably right in some capacity. Of course Shelly wouldn't wanna see him hurt. But she isn't here to anyway.
Colt didn't want any reassurance. He wanted Shelly back. Just one thing. Just one, that's all that Colt fucking wanted.
Years of suffering and years of discomfort, years of pain. Years upon years upon fucking years of trauma made Shelly. Finally, finally, when she gets a good life, when the light isn't being drained from her eyes anymore, she's deemed irrelevant. Discarded of.
No, no, no. Don't say that. Colt lurches a little, feeling bitter bile burning his throat. No. They didn't. They didn't. They..
He brings the fabric in his hands closer. Buries himself in it. Maybe if he tries hard enough. Maybe if he just tries. Maybe it's a nightmare or something. Maybe she'll be sleeping alongside him tomorrow morning, her purple hair sprawled out against plush pillows.
Maybe if he tries hard enough he can accept that she's gone.
Or maybe if he tries hard enough, he can go meet her again.