Grief's Corruption

It is strange how quickly the world jumps at the chance to change. In one moment all seems ordered, all seems well. Then in the next, with the smallest nudge, what is ordinary becomes strange and what is strange becomes ordinary. A push, however, a push gives far more than a nudge. A nudge merely rearranges, but a push? A push sends everything into a chaotic spiral that uproots to make something new, something unfamiliar. So what is death but a shove?

Standing here on this old, familiar porch with its creaky wooden boards and its smoothed, oaken railings I can not help but look out on the town of Mornington with a stranger’s eyes. From atop Ashton Hill, I gaze upon the town square far below, its straight and ordered dirt paths forming a grid between the uniform thatched roofs of homes, shops and official buildings. Each road held a happy memory, each roof sheltered a host of smiling faces. But now, they are haunted. Happiness has been contorted and misshaped until it takes on the alien, malformed form of despair and grief. Death lingers in every alley and no doubt the reaper’s reflection stalks every window. All while the pale silver moonlight casts it in an otherworldly glow, unapproachable and unfamiliar. Even after the passing of two years, I still can not set foot on those streets. Despair forbids it. I snap on my heels and recoil. Night air brushes against my skin, all over my body from head to heel my skin chills and grows goose-pimples. My naked form quivers. My eyes do not close. The chair comes into sight and tears invite themselves into my eyes.

“Oh… what have I done? Dear lord,” I cry barely above a whisper.

I dart my gaze to the side. I am stupid for speaking, he could have awakened. Thankfully the doorway remained empty and the bed beyond remained still. I let out a long, silent sigh and stand up tall again. My breasts brush against the railing, the large nuisances that they are. Unnatural and unwieldy, it is like having two pumpkins strapped to my chest. Both in size and in weight. Just at the mere thought, my back aches. My legs, stomach and groin join the chorus of complaints, screaming and shouting. I gaze at the chair once again and even before the thought enters my mind I toss it away. No, I can’t sit in it. I can’t disrupt the dust, dust that gathers and collects day by day, dust that marks her absence from the world. Almost as if she still has some influence over the world. Who am I to take that from her by sitting and disrupting her dust? So, I stand. I bear the pain, for her and for him. I glance back again, he is still asleep. Tears reemerge and I am forced to look away. What we did, it couldn’t have been wrong. Could it? I shake my head until the thoughts leave. Pondering such things does me no good. But all that awaits me are the sights of a landscape once familiar. The McMillan farm, once a place of innocent play and childhood dreams is now but a reminder of feelings far from reach. It is taunting, the illusion of hope for a life now finished. Without Mother, how can I call myself a child? And after what has occurred beyond that empty doorway and on that still bed, how can I call myself innocent? Tears surge and give way to sobs. Despair takes my legs and I am forced to lean against the railing, clutching myself as if somehow I would float away like a twig caught in the current of a stream. Just as I am certain I will fall, his arms wrap around me and pull me back against his chest.

“Do not cry my little flower,” he whispers.

His worn hands, hard like old leather grasp my shoulders as his arms press against my collarbone. Warmth radiates from his body, his bare chest a churning fire.

“Father…” I whimper.

“I am here, Lily.”

I clutch his forearms, thick with lean muscle and covered in hair.

“What we did, did it feel right to you?”

“Of course, it felt as if love had finally returned to our family. As if what we have been missing all these years was amongst us again.”

His lips press down against the back of my head and I feel the smile upon them. I stop my crying at once, I wipe my eyes and choke away my sobs.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. It was selfish of me to sob like this, to allow despair to return just after joy and hope had returned.”

“Selfish?” He moved back ever so slightly, lifting his lips from my head and his chest from my back. “It is not selfish of you to mourn your mother.”

“It is.” I insist.

Challenging Father... that it is not right but I just can’t help it. This burden weighs on me so and strength has finally abandoned me.

“We grieved together for that first year. Despair gripped us both. But… you broke free. You poured into your work and no longer sobbed while I could barely manage to leave my bed. I sob and complain like a foolish child and I know it wains you. I am keeping your despair around with my weakness. I-”

Suddenly he spins me around and looms over me, his face hard like steel and cold like ice.

“You are not weak,” He says with thundering authority. “Despair never truly leaves. It always lingers but it does fade and shrink. For some, it fades quickly and for some, it fades for what feels like an eternity. You need to grieve my little flower, for as long as you need. If you do not, your despair will fester within you and pull you below that deep lake of grief. So, lean on me. I will always keep your head above water.”

I begin to sob again and at once his arms wrap around me and pull me close. My face buries into his forest of chest hair and I find myself clinging to him.

“B-But, I want to support you too,” I whimper.

He caresses my cheek and guides my gaze up to his.

“You do. Tonight I saw the glee return to your eyes, saw your smile return to your face and heard the laughter return to your voice. That is what I lean on. You are my shining star in an empty night sky.”

Through my teary eyes, I can barely see him. I wipe them away but more just return. Even so, I smile up at him. Feelings that I have kept buried ever since stepping out onto this porch resurface. They surge through me, warming my chilled body and releasing the tension in my despair. Calm and sure, I lean on him. We grasp each other and our lips meet. His beard pickles my cheeks and chin but I don’t mind. I simply twist my head and lock our lips into a long, deep kiss. His fingers glide down the valley of my back and he takes hold of my waist, thumbs kneading gently. I grasp his shoulder blades and feel the firm muscle ripple across his back. He breaks our kiss but only moves his lips a fraction of an inch from mine.

“Come inside where it’s warm,” he whispers.

My heart begins to flutter and a tremble shivers across my body.

“Yes, Father,” I say and kiss him lightly.

His hands glide down further onto my buttocks. I blush, like my breasts, they too are unnaturally large. All of a sudden, he takes a firm grasp of them making me gasp. Then, with a grunt, he hoists me off my feet and begins to carry me. My legs move on their own, wrapping around his waist. Over my shoulder, I see it. The dark, empty doorway approaches. We pass through it and the still bed comes into view. Father lays me down on it and crawls on top of me. It is happening all over again, just as it did before. And just like before I can not help but laugh as he buries his face between my breasts. They envelop him, surrounding his head like two pillows. I hold them still, pressing them together so he may stay submerged. It is like he is diving within me, becoming a part of me and me a part of him. His lips press against the valley between my breasts, followed by his tongue. His warm, wet tongue. My heart flutters again. Between my legs, the tip of his cock presses against me. My groin complains, screaming with a warning heat but I ignore it. I open my legs for him and he accepts the invitation. His cock enters me, guided by his hand. It hurts but not as severely as it did before. The pain is dull, a pathetic whimper compared to the wailing screech it was before. The pain isn’t important. Him being inside me, joining our bodies and hearts, that’s what matters.