Time doesn’t heal all wounds. We both know that’s bullshit; it comes from people who have nothing comforting or original to say.

You're dead, and I'm the worst kind of alive.

I’d give in to the grief but make sure I wasn’t loud enough to draw attention from those who think words will make me feel better.

Then there’s the kind of zombie I’ve become now: the one who has lost everything—his brain, his heart, his light, his direction. He wanders the world, bumping into this, tripping over that, but keeps going and going. That is life after death.

I look up, and Jackson's eyes find mine. For a second, it almost feels like we're about to race into the hole to join you. Being buried alive has got to be better than whatever comes next.

I sometimes forget their voices." I say. It's only been four months but that's fact. "They blend with the voices of people around me, but I could recognize their screams anywhere.

Damn, grief is complicated enough without wondering how someone else is handling their own shade of it.

Grief is complicated enough without wondering how someone else is handling their own shade of it.