Grief: Five Stories of Apocalyptic Loss by Michael Coorlim Page A
Authors: Michael Coorlim
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give in and let go."
"What do you recommend that our viewers do, Professor? What's the healthy way to cope with a loss of this scale?"
"I don't think that it matters."
Elizabeth gave a last mighty tug, pulling away from George and almost dislocating her arm in the process. She fled the parlor in tears.
"Liz--" Sam began, only to be stopped by George's firm hand on her shoulder.
"Let... let her go," he managed. "She. She needs this. There's nothing more that we can do for her."
***
Elizabeth ran away from the eyes watching her, away from the sheer vulgarity of the television treating the matter like just another day's events, away from the drug use and the violence and up the stairs. The first bedroom she tried was, blissfully, unoccupied, and she collapsed into a sobbing heap on the bed.
After her tears had subsided she sat very still, listening to the sounds of the party below. The music was loud, as was the laughter, but it seemed to have a certain forced quality to it – a ragged edge sharp enough to draw blood. She shivered, drawing her knees to her chest.
She held them tighter as heavy footfalls approached her door, moved past, and entered the room next to hers. Through the thin walls separating them she heard a feminine giggle, followed by the low baritone of a man's voice. She tried hard not to identify the responding girlish query as coming from Sam, and equally hard not to identify the voice of the man that was, even now, probably well on his way to undressing her.
Still, any distraction was a welcome one. Anything that wasn't directly related to the situation at hand, the betrayal she felt at the uncharacteristic behavior of her friends, that she could focus on instead of the anxiety threatening to once more well up, spill out of her mouth and consume her, leaving behind nothing but bone and ash. The sounds next-door had grown quieter, more furtive – the sound of someone shifting, the bed creaking, punctuated by the occasional sigh or intake of breath.
A light knock on her own door startled her. "Yes?" she asked with a sniffle, surprised at the weakness in her voice. "Yes?" she repeated, this time with a bit more resolve.
The door opened a slice. "Elizabeth?" Ross asked, opening the door slightly wider, slipping inside and closing it behind himself. She scooted back on the bed into a sitting position, pulling the covers up around herself. She didn't want to see him. She didn't want to see anybody.
"I'm fine, Ross." Hearing a bit more frost in her voice than she intended, she softened a bit, looking away from him and towards the window. She could see the distant glow of the city, a warm orange not of electric lights, but of fire. She looked swiftly away, at the floor. "I'm fine."
"It's okay." He sat on the bed next to her.
"I'm not stupid, you know."
"I know, sweetie."
"I know what's going on. I know it's... it's the end of everything. The end of the world. Everyone acts like I'm crazy or stupid, like I can't understand what's happening just because I'm not drawing into myself like George was, or because I'm not freaking out or hiding in a church or throwing myself into... into drugs or oblivion or whatever like everybody expects. I'm fine."
"No." Ross shook his head. "Honey, you're not."
"I'm fine, really."
"No." Ross lay back next to her, fingers laced across his abdomen, eyes half closed. "You're not fine. Nobody's fine. We're all going to die. Soon."
"I said I--"
Ross continued speaking as if she hadn't interrupted him. "You're going to die. I'm going to die. George is going to die. Your parents are going to die. Everybody is going to die. There will be no survivors. There will be no more humanity. There will be no more art, no more literature, no more history. You remember how we used to get drunk and bitch about the government and how future archaeologists wound ponder the fall of our empires and laugh at the folly of modern man? That isn't going to happen. If life ever returns
"What do you recommend that our viewers do, Professor? What's the healthy way to cope with a loss of this scale?"
"I don't think that it matters."
Elizabeth gave a last mighty tug, pulling away from George and almost dislocating her arm in the process. She fled the parlor in tears.
"Liz--" Sam began, only to be stopped by George's firm hand on her shoulder.
"Let... let her go," he managed. "She. She needs this. There's nothing more that we can do for her."
***
Elizabeth ran away from the eyes watching her, away from the sheer vulgarity of the television treating the matter like just another day's events, away from the drug use and the violence and up the stairs. The first bedroom she tried was, blissfully, unoccupied, and she collapsed into a sobbing heap on the bed.
After her tears had subsided she sat very still, listening to the sounds of the party below. The music was loud, as was the laughter, but it seemed to have a certain forced quality to it – a ragged edge sharp enough to draw blood. She shivered, drawing her knees to her chest.
She held them tighter as heavy footfalls approached her door, moved past, and entered the room next to hers. Through the thin walls separating them she heard a feminine giggle, followed by the low baritone of a man's voice. She tried hard not to identify the responding girlish query as coming from Sam, and equally hard not to identify the voice of the man that was, even now, probably well on his way to undressing her.
Still, any distraction was a welcome one. Anything that wasn't directly related to the situation at hand, the betrayal she felt at the uncharacteristic behavior of her friends, that she could focus on instead of the anxiety threatening to once more well up, spill out of her mouth and consume her, leaving behind nothing but bone and ash. The sounds next-door had grown quieter, more furtive – the sound of someone shifting, the bed creaking, punctuated by the occasional sigh or intake of breath.
A light knock on her own door startled her. "Yes?" she asked with a sniffle, surprised at the weakness in her voice. "Yes?" she repeated, this time with a bit more resolve.
The door opened a slice. "Elizabeth?" Ross asked, opening the door slightly wider, slipping inside and closing it behind himself. She scooted back on the bed into a sitting position, pulling the covers up around herself. She didn't want to see him. She didn't want to see anybody.
"I'm fine, Ross." Hearing a bit more frost in her voice than she intended, she softened a bit, looking away from him and towards the window. She could see the distant glow of the city, a warm orange not of electric lights, but of fire. She looked swiftly away, at the floor. "I'm fine."
"It's okay." He sat on the bed next to her.
"I'm not stupid, you know."
"I know, sweetie."
"I know what's going on. I know it's... it's the end of everything. The end of the world. Everyone acts like I'm crazy or stupid, like I can't understand what's happening just because I'm not drawing into myself like George was, or because I'm not freaking out or hiding in a church or throwing myself into... into drugs or oblivion or whatever like everybody expects. I'm fine."
"No." Ross shook his head. "Honey, you're not."
"I'm fine, really."
"No." Ross lay back next to her, fingers laced across his abdomen, eyes half closed. "You're not fine. Nobody's fine. We're all going to die. Soon."
"I said I--"
Ross continued speaking as if she hadn't interrupted him. "You're going to die. I'm going to die. George is going to die. Your parents are going to die. Everybody is going to die. There will be no survivors. There will be no more humanity. There will be no more art, no more literature, no more history. You remember how we used to get drunk and bitch about the government and how future archaeologists wound ponder the fall of our empires and laugh at the folly of modern man? That isn't going to happen. If life ever returns
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