The Good Host's Guide to Grief
By C.D.
Grief is an impatient visitor. On your slowest weekday in the longest month of the year, it will slither into your home uninvited and perch behind your bedroom curtains.
The first night you will scream as you turn on the lights and touch the slime trail on your carpet. Its matted hair will lick noisily at the cracked soles of your feet. Your vents will filter in the distinct odor of burning tires, but the fumes will not be poisonous, yet. When you turn the warm handle of your bedroom door, it will not creak.
Do not attempt to contact your friends. They are in a far better place, and your calls will not find them there. Furthermore, it would be impolite to ignore one guest in favor of another.
You will lay in bed on your side and stare at the silhouette in your window the entire night. In the morning, you will light sage.
The following days will be louder. Your colleagues will speak as they always have, but you will hear more than what is said. Check the locks twice on your way out, and remember that you had never left your keys under the flowerpot. If your headache ruptures a blood vessel in your temple, a single dose of ibuprofen should suffice.
On the sixth day, you will invest in lavender scented air freshener and a wet vacuum cleaner. Be careful to stock up on groceries. They tend to rot too slowly for your guest’s particular tastes.
You will fall asleep for the first time on the eighth day, facing the window with one hand on a 9mm handgun underneath your pillow. After all, safety is paramount. The lavender air freshener will smell like water now because of how saturated the air is. Your vents should have started choking on the filth they greedily swallow. Let them be, they deserve it.
Only once will you see the silhouette on your windowsill move. When this happens, do not panic. A little dusting around the curtains should take care of the restlessness. However, remember never to leave your guest unattended after this occurrence. Laundry can wait, and so can your dinner.
On the sixteenth day, you will sleep with your back to the window. It will feel like an achievement and taste like bitter betrayal. Do not apologize with material goods. The biggest gift you can offer is self-improvement. Sign up for yoga, Pilates, herbal teas. Focus on yourself, not on the rats digging into your scalp and ripping through your clothes.
By this time, you should have learned to accommodate your guest so well that it becomes second nature. Do not consult a physician about the blood pooling in your ears.
On the twenty-fifth day, when you forget the intruder’s name, scrub your hands raw before asking for an introduction. Do so politely, as the vortex tastes best unstirred.
It will call itself Fate.
THE END
Author Bio: C.D. is a student in Nepal. A big horror and science fiction enthusiast, she takes inspiration from the works of Neil Gaiman and Isaac Asimov.