Done Grieving
"Are you aware this has caused the city quite the drawback?" Silco drawled, holding a lighter to the end of the cigar. "It is—" he took a deliberate drag, letting the smoke snake out as he continued, "—tight around these streets, nowadays." He was referring to the additional Enforcers stalking the streets and having a fun time harassing passers-by. The trade coming into and out of Zaun was heavily monitored, effectively shutting down the first round of Shimmer distribution that Silco’d been cooking up. But, Silco was a man of patience.
He threw the lighter on the desk in front of him, all kinds of odd miscellanea scattered atop. One common theme among them seemed to be the neon blue paint, depicting childish characters. Perpendicular to his desk stood a sofa, on it the newly-appointed Sheriff of Piltover. The tense man sat silent and attentive.
Marcus had learned to deal with how talking to Silco always felt condescending, always an undertone of hostility that had him feeling he was always in the wrong, always at fault. Outside Silco's office, he tried begrudgingly to ensure what was agreed on was accomplished, but in here, everything that he could've done and failed seemed to come bite him in the ass. Perhaps, Silco wrought his words with such calculated preciseness that he left the other party burning; Marcus always left a meeting seething and somewhat lost as to how easily he complied and how obedient her was. He wondered how Silco'd behave when he was in Marcus's domain, if the roles would be switched.
"I wasn't exactly equipped to deal with it," said Marcus. "I wonder where were you, Silco, when your people threatened and terrorized mine? Heaven's sake, they killed a lady," he tried to be as collected as Silco, as powerful as him; a quiet commanding thing. Still, his composure dipped and there it was, as present and pervasive as ever; hot and glistening pools of hatred. The cover he tried to drape over it had holes and was easily flammable as it was fleeting, it seemed to burn away some days. His exhale was shaky, his inhale laced with rich cigar smoke. Clenching his teeth, he inclined his head meekly.
A pair of eyes bore into him, he could feel it. He could imagine their mismatched shape, disassembling him, and puzzling out if he was serious.
"A taste of their own medicine, then," replied Silco.
Marcus opened his eyes, and looked up. A beat. He saw no remorse, no hatred, but indifference. Marcus drew a breath in and, "How can you be so unbothere-"
"It gets better the more people you lose,” came the cool reply. “Truth is,” he stood up from his seat, one easy foot in front of the other, “it never will. It never does. The loss bites into you and it draws blood. It’s paralyzing, the grief, and you can do nothing but bleed,” Hands clasped behind his back, he paced slowly, eyes unseeing. “Bleed you do. Until you can’t, of course. Until you’re sick of it,” A pause, for dramatic purposes, Marcus wagered. “After a while, you realize it’s your turn to bite.” Another pause. “The sole difference is in the way you lash out, your inability to soak it in no more than you already have,” With his final words, he turned his back to Marcus. The sickly glow from the window illuminated his figure just so. His cigar was dead and grey between his fingers at his back.
“That applies to everyone,” came his reply after a moment of thought. “It’s Piltover’s turn to bite now, do you realize?” Marcus felt gravel in his throat.
Silco turned his head, so that Marcus saw the marred and stiff side of it. “Zaun has grieved enough.”
In that moment, Marcus thought he’d never forget the way the bleak light caught Silco.
Avery felt the grief retreat subtly; wispy, slipping through her fingers. She felt it slipping away when it didn’t hurt that much when she recalled her mother. Perhaps, it rubbed away with every lick of wind against her skin, carrying with it the scent of vitality of the ever-evolving city of progress. However, as with everything else, nothing was peaceful, or the peace is never permanent enough. The smell of the city was as she remembered it, so painfully identical to the days when she had her mother still. Or maybe it was different, or maybe she couldn’t really remember. Life seemed fake now, or her life before was fake.
There were nights, still, where she sat up in the night, whimpering and mewling, and the feeling of a palm pressing against her wet face seemed about the only reminder that she was not there. Some nights, Avery dreamt the hands reached out for her from the heavy and dusty air, and she woke up when something so distinctly cold and sharp was thrust into her neck. She knew that wasn’t how it went, but still. Other nights, it was the sounds she made as she grasped for her daughter. Caitlyn wouldn’t mention any of it in the morning, but Avery could still see her feelings in the way she refrained from looking at her and the way her shoulders slumped forward.
She still softened at how she brought her sweet-smelling tea, and the biscuits, too. The tea would grow cold long before Avery touched it, not in her disdain for Cait, far from it in truth, but how pathetic she herself was.
It was a guttural feeling. Inexplicable. She’d hear all through her early childhood how she was an angry child. Maybe this anger issue was flaring up. Flaring up and up and up. Deep within, it seemed to come from. Made her breathe faster, harsher, and with it came the tears. Oh, did the tears come. Then, Avery would wipe at her eyes with quick swipes of her sleeves, muttering quiet curses. She was mad at the tears, because it kept coming and it kept making her angry, and then she’d be breathless.
It caught her mind in a vice grip, restricting sensibility, made her so quick to rise to its calling. The calling of lashing out, to blow up, to do something. Hit, punch, kick, slam. It didn’t seem to matter as long as she hurt things (or if she hit or scratch herself until it left angry red streaks along her skin). A smashed cup here, and a torn book there (or bruises). It did feel relieving, as if something’d been building up and up till it finally burst.
There was anger at her situation. That her mother died when she was trying to be there for her, that she can’t even drink a cup of fucking tea because she was troubled. It was choking her out. Its fingers curled around her tight, especially now, and it seemed to squeeze hard.
She squeezed her own hand experimentally, imagining herself there in place of a crumbling biscuit. Fragile this biscuit sure was, but was she? It’d certainly be easier if she could just crumble and be swept away with a lick of a broom.
This morning was one of those mornings where Cait was extra stiff in the ways she showed care. A plate of biscuits where she needed to be left alone entirely.
She’d not been doing as worse as she was, but biscuits did not cure grief. She guessed she should cut Cait some slack. She could resort to other things, and she tried to.
Painting and creating in general was coming back to her slowly. It had to come back, she thought, because being dead and in the ground seemed about the only way she didn’t turn back to canvases and brushes, or ink to paper. Those paintings — the ones where she remembered her mother’s hand wrapped around hers, guiding her paint strokes — were so hard to look at without the phantom and absent warmth of her seeping out of the canvas, so she just discarded them. Plus, Cassandra’s guidance was… somewhat akin to having a mother, not that she’d ever replace her mom, but whatever.
Her welcome into the family was gracious enough. It was all warmth. It was suffocating. Glances when they thought she wasn’t looking; over the rim of their cups, out of the corner of their eyes. What is the girl gonna do? is what they ask in their heads, but Avery could hear it. A thumb sticking out in their image of regality, that’s what she was.
A sigh left her mouth. These thoughts showed up constantly. She tried not to give a shit, and told herself as such. But when it persisted in the night and prevented sleep, she asked herself, what am I gonna do?
”Hem."
She turned on the velvet settee and spied Cait standing awkwardly by the door. The sun rays flooded through the open window, and Cait’s hair caught it in a certain way. Her dark hair drank it in, her eyes, too. Avery thought she looked breathtaking. Her eyes were trained on the rug, and Avery’s eyes followed hers until it settled on the crumbs of the fallen cookie.
“I can explain,” Avery blurted out.
“You could have just…” A pause, “did you miss your mouth?” Furrowed brows and a frown. She was puzzled.
“Uh, yeah, it seems that way.” She looked away, towards the rippling curtains, and pursed her lips. “How did sharpshooting go?” She tried to divert the attention from the crumbs.
“As it usually does.”
”That’s… good to hear,” she said. She held her breath. “Erm, d’you need something?”
”Just,” she cleared her throat, “checking on you,” she replied. “How long before… Avery—“ suddenly she sounded desperate. Alarmed, her eyes flitted back to her. “—seeing you like this is sad.” There was the admission she must’ve been working up to, and prematurely let out. The rest would’ve been something like, benormal again so I can spend time with you, so that we can be okay again, so that I can have fun with you, so that—
In and out.
“Losing your mother is sad,” she snapped back. “What more do you want from me?” She stood up and faced her friend. They had been asking much from her. Lead your house, Avery, they said. That in itself was one massive task, one that she was unwilling to do. And, now— “Be fine?” She asked incredulously.
“I don’t know what to do!” She stomped her foot, and Avery was reminded of a child. They both were children. “I’ve never,” tears were coming out, and hands were wiping them away. The same hands that wiped hers away, too. “I’ve never had to do this.”
When will you ever have to do this? Avery thought venomously.
She toed away at the pile of crumbs at her feet, something in her throat. It was awhile before she was certain that her voice wouldn’t break when she spoke. “You don’t have to do anything, ok?” She muttered. “I’ll be fine.” I don’t need anyone’s help. “I’ll get over it someday. Or maybe you’ll get better, I don’t know.”
Perhaps when she recalled her mother with warmth in place for pain, she’ll be over it. Not in a long while. Perhaps never.
She stepped on the crumbs, and stepped towards the door, towards Cait. She stepped on this attempt at a conversation, and stepped away from the room, away from Cait. She stepped through the hallway, and eventually, she stepped through the front doors.
In and out.
Somewhat fresh air helped wash away the vile taste of frustration. The sunlight was insisting she close her eyes. Trees rustled in the light breeze of summer. And the sky was ever so clear. The top of her head was warm to the touch, her dark hair undoubtedly absorbing the sun. Turning her head to the ground she began walking, and exited through the gates.