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Die, Deny. Rinse. Repeat.
The ultimate consequence of refusing to push past denial? Cycling through it again. And again. (Second part, follow-up)
When I try to recall the moment I heard the news, I usually picture something like this:
First, the words. “Unfortunately he passed away.”
Then, I drop the phone (in slow motion) before it shatters dramatically to the floor beneath me while I simultaneously cover my mouth (still slow motion) in shock before letting out a wail of anguish, screaming “No!” with an orchestra playing climactic sad music in the background.
The truth is, however, that I don’t remember the moment that well. I don’t remember many moments before it, and certainly not the moments after. The memory of that night consists of snapshots, frozen moments in time with only a few words, glances, sensations, visions remaining intact.
“Fuck you, Josh.”
That is one of them.
It was his mother who said it. I don’t remember how long it took between the coroner calling to apologize for his death — hell, I don’t remember why they called me at all to be honest, instead of her. I just remember saying it, between uncontrollable attempts at breathing between sobbing in disbelief. Why had nobody told anyone anything? Why me? It was common knowledge that anyone associated with…
