Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
“It could be a place for you to write your feelings. Help you process your grief as we work our way through it,” Leo tacked on. “It could be a place for poetry, if you so wish. If you draw, it could be where you sketch out whatever inspires you.”
“Or, something we have found has worked exceptionally well for previous groups,” Mia said, “is the journal could be where you get to express whatever you didn’t get to say to the one or ones you have lost.” The mood in the room went from neutral to downright clogging. Mia seemed to feel this, and her voice grew gentler. “We know, for many of you, you didn’t get closure.” An invisible hand gripped on to the front of my throat and began to squeeze. “You didn’t get to say goodbye.” She gave that sentence a moment to breathe, which was the last thing I needed. “When that happens, there are lots of things left unsaid.” I shifted on the couch and felt people’s eyes fix on me. Or maybe they didn’t. I just felt like I was under a huge friggin’ spotlight. I forced myself to still, feeling that hand around my neck squeeze tighter and tighter as unwanted images of that night began flashing through my head. The loud screeching of tires, the sound of metal crunching … the smell of blood—so much blood—the horn … the continuous, never-ending sound of the horn …
“And for others, it may be somewhere you tell your loved one how you’re feeling, how life without them has been. Your dreams and fears. Your aspirations and your apprehensions. Everything and anything you want. No one will be reading them but you. These are for your eyes only,” Leo said.
“You could use it as a place to talk to them again, no matter how trivial. Like a conversation,” Mia said. My eyes began flickering around the room. Most of the others were nodding, seeming to readily accept our task. I wanted to get up and leave, my hands itching and my feet bouncing on the floor. I wanted to catch the first flight back to the States and get the hell out of this place and away from this group.
But then I caught sight of Savannah.
She was clutching the journal in her hands, her knuckles turning bone white. She wasn’t nodding in agreement. She didn’t seem sold on the idea like everyone else. Instead, she was staring at the plain blue color of the journal with such a devastated expression that I felt my stomach drop. Her breathing had grown quicker, and I was sure she was about to fall headfirst into another anxiety attack.
So, I watched her, just to make sure she didn’t slip. And I began to wonder who had left her life and ripped it wide open. Had it been an illness that her loved one had had, or was their death quick and unexpected? Was it the other person’s choice, like it had been—
“It’s not happening,” I suddenly bellowed, my harsh voice filling up the room. Those thoughts … I’d hit my limit. Couldn’t take thinking of it anymore. I waved my journal in the air. “This is useless. And I have nothing to say to him anyway.”
“We understand you think that way, Cael, we do,” Leo said. I looked around the room, needing to find a way out of here. I felt caged. Trapped. I needed to leave.
“But we want you to hold on to it. Our hope is that, after some time with us, on this trip, you may feel differently. Maybe learn to open up. To explore your feelings.”
I scoffed a laugh, then got up and walked to the fire. I threw the journal straight into the roaring hearth. “That’s what I think of the journal,” I said, feeling deep satisfaction at watching the blank pages begin to burn. “I’m not writing in it. What’s the point? What’s the point in any of this? He’s dead, and he’s not coming back.”
There was total silence in the room, but my inner rebellion cheered me on. I would never talk to Cill again. Not in any form. Especially not in some journal where the entries to our lost ones were nothing more than a pathetic fantasy, a way to trick us into feeling better.
The crackling of the burning logs sounded like a thousand thunderbolts crashing as it devoured every inch of the journal. It felt like hours as I watched it. Then, I looked up and caught Savannah’s gaze. Her face wore an expression of shock, but there was also something else … Understanding? Sympathy? I didn’t know. But I didn’t like how it made my chest ache, made my heart beat in double time. I didn’t like how her big blue eyes were locked on me like she could see right through me.