Whats Left

Downcast. Forlorn. Inconsolable. All these words, a simple universal feeling. It consumed the room like flame begging for the release of oxygen, a cry for release. Yet none was to be had. Still, somehow, despite all these words, all still felt… calm. The gentle rapping of rain upon the roof was the only noise to be found, the silence of the room unbearably uneasy. Nevada didn’t know where everyone had gone, hell she didn’t know when everyone had gone. But she could hardly bring herself to care. No, her focus belong to but one. The solemn amalgamation of mahogany and steel that sat before her had consumed her attention from the start. She couldn’t bother herself with counting the numbers who had passed by the same structure. It wasn’t her place to count for the lost. No, her only meaning was to meet the Night. To ask it, to beg it for some sort of answer. Why? Why this, and why now? She couldn’t find any answers, no matter how hard she begged.

Every day beforehand others come to her, seeing to her mind and the seething confusion within. “Are you okay?” they would ask her, one after another. “Do you want to talk?” They’d continue. But why? Why should she wish to talk? To what end was it meant? The pain was not hers yet all had been there, reassuring her every step of the way. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. The words passed her mind every day as others pleaded to her for the sake of her sanity. But she didn’t wish it. She didn’t want it. She wasn’t the one who deserved their words! No, she would not see him snuffed out for the sake of her own sanity. To guard her “feelings.”

In that moment of solitude, she was glad they were gone. The many who had admired the sacrifice of the ordeal would never know the pain of the few who witnessed its tragedy. Who felt its sting. The others knew why Nevada felt so apprehensive. They knew why she rejected their support so. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want them thinking of her. She wanted them thinking of him. Of all he had done, of all he had given them. She wanted him remembered, not her.

Nevada ran a beaten hand against the polished frame, a cold print running the length as the heat of her hand met the cold surface. A rough gasp caught itself in Nevada’s throat as reality hit like a boulder. She begged for some sort of answer, but was left with none. And she knew well that she was unlikely to ever have as such. Slowly she moved her hand from the wood of the box, her hands still roughly pulling at it. She could feel old wounds reopening, not just on her hands, but in her heart and mind. The blood was only temporary. It would stain, but the wounds? They would heal. But not in her mind. How could she watch so many walk from her life, only for it to hurt now most of all? It would linger with her, she knew that, more so now than ever. No man so young should ever be forced home in a box. Only worse still could it be to have naught to place in that box. She finally permitted a sob to run through her mouth to escape that which she had been pushing down for so long. She lowered her head to the wood, uninterrupted tears flowing as she gasped for breath every few moments she would. She didn’t care who heard. She was alone here and now. What was left to cry on but an empty casket?