Grief never really dies, but it does hide.
No longer will it make itself known, beating in time with your heart during every waking moment and clinging to the wispy ends of your dreams. No, no - grief grows smart. It learns to hide in the gaps between breaths, learns to whisper in your ear as the wind blows. It does not linger long, just enough to make you stop and think.
For the unlucky, it may grab ahold of this moment of weakness and pull you under when you least expect it. For others, though, it fades once again, and you continue forth with only faint memories surfacing in the recesses of your mind.
The scars that grief leaves in your mind run deeper than any physical wound ever could. It tries to convince you that you, too, are lost.
Sometimes, you are.
Sometimes, years may pass without any more than a soft sigh or a flash of light to remind you. You may think it gone, that you have recovered. Healed.
An absence of grief is not healing; it is denial. Healing is letting go of the grief, letting it flow past you in your tumbling river of thoughts without fighting it. The sadness may not fade, but it doesn't have to. You learn to live with it.
But there are times when grief festers and grows. It takes over every thought, every breath, every second of your life. It pulls you under, drowns you in fear and pain. You cannot resurface alone, and without someone to pull you up or a rock to grab ahold of, you may be lost forever. It has happened before, and will surely happen again.
Grief is not always the end, but it can be. It never leaves, waiting for a moment of vulnerability to drag you down again. But the persistent can climb their way back to shore - and are the ones to answer the cries of those who couldn't.
pov: one, two Grammarly is coming for you
You hear Grammarly in the distance, their long nails scraping across the walls of the hall. You're trying hard not to hyperventilate. Hand flies over your mouth in horror when your childhood lamp falls, then shatters. The lamp was made by your late-great grandmother in 1939. She was a film writer with a side hobby of making pottery. You look at the ceiling, Sorry, Grandma, you inwardly apologize to yourself, and everyone you've ever wronged too. This is what it feels like when your life flashes before your eyes. The scraping stops, you inhale sharply. This is it, this is how I die, is the only thing you find yourself thinking. A soft knock follows shortly after the scraping stops, You imagine their tall pale head snapping towards your door, fingers clawing at it. Surprisingly there is no clawing, just a gentle knock. You check to make sure the door is locked, firmly. You whip out your phone, then put it away again. No use in calling the police now, it's already over for you. You know your family is next. A soft hum can be heard from outside your bedroom, then a loud slam. You peer out from your hiding place. A long, white hand with lengthy nails has broken through your door. There is a hole in the door, right above the silver handle. You retract your body back immediately, but you know it's no use. They will get you eventually. You are eternally doomed. As you expected, they sniff you out. The last thing you see is that haunting pale hand. The last thing you smell is fear. The last thing you touch is the fine brown carpet of your childhood bedroom. The last thing you taste is your bloody lip, which you damaged earlier in the frantic escape. You will never escape again. The last thing you hear is this quiet, almost angelic serenade, "Writing isn't easy. That's why Grammarly can help. This sentence is grammatically correct, but it's wordy, and hard to read. It undermines the writer's message and the word choice is bland. Grammarly's cutting edge technology helps you craft compelling, understandable writing that makes an impact on your reader. Much better. Are you ready to give it a try...?"