This morning I was greeted with a release date and a look at the cover art for the Hazardous Press anthology Horrific History I have a story in. I should be thrilled, but instead I find myself quiet, subdued, and sad. As a writer, I seek to find the darkness in our world and give it a voice. I want to take the tragedies of the human experience and make them into a fearful journey into our souls.
I’ve been putting this post off for over a day, because to be quite frank, I never wanted to write anything like it. I can give the people I create hardships and bring their lives crashing down on them, but when tragedy strikes close to home, it changes you. You sit back and evaluate everything in your life you hold dear. Once you finish, you realize every moment we have here is on borrowed time. The universe owes us nothing and all we owe it in the end is our passing.
A parent should never have to bury their child. As a parent myself, it is my job to make sure my children bury me. Any other way isn’t right. Seeing this happen to someone close to me is something I wouldn’t wish on anybody…ever. Nothing can reverse or undo what has happened. The only thing we can do for those in mourning is to give our support, our love, and give them the strength to carry on. When I look at my sons, even though a part of me feels dead inside right now, I must carry on for them. I must carry on for those around me who are grieving and need that shoulder to cry on I can provide. I must carry on for myself, to fill the empty feeling that has crept into my soul over the past day.
Look around you and remember who you care about and who cares about you. Tell them how you feel. Tell them how much they mean to you. When the chips are down and the universe has come to collect, don’t leave or let anyone else leave without them knowing how you feel because we never know when that moment will come for any of us. In life there are some second chances, but in the end you never get another chance to let that one person know how much you love them.
I never said my peace to someone close to me and I’ve carried that scar with me for years. Times like these rip that scab from my soul and I bleed out. The pain rushes back into every fiber of my being and I feel dead inside again. In time the wounds we accrue will scab back over and we will try not to forget the reason they are there. I find myself needing the hurt and the pain to survive. On occasion, I will pick the hardened clotted blood until I bleed again. That blood? I put it on the page for you and more and more I find more of myself in my work.
My blood is in every piece.
I will leave you now to find those you need to tell you love or care about. I have more thinking to do and more prayers to say for a family left shattered in the wake of a death. If anything, I want them to find some comfort and when they need it, my shoulder will be there to catch the tears they shed in sorrow.