Grief - Blog Posts
To the little girl who faded with the dying light of October, 1922— My dearest Cecilia, It is with unbearable grief that I write to you. Each passing day, I am forced to reconcile with the weight of your absence, haunted by the silence you left behind. Although it wasn’t my hands that took your life, my heart aches with regret— because in the silence of my heart, I have convinced myself that it was my fault.
—A lady and her quill, Letters to dead children.
Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Crow 1994 Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Eric Draven/Reader, Eric Draven/Shelly Webster, Eric Draven/You Characters: Eric Draven, Shelly Webster, Reader, Sarah Mohr Additional Tags: Reader-Insert, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Eventual Fluff, Inspired by Music, Post-Canon, Post-MCR, Love, Falling In Love, Canon-Typical Violence Summary:
Wiping the tears from her eyes, she could see a crouched man dressed in all black, rips and tears covering his attire, squatting on the sides of the mausoleum as if he were a fierce stone protector right at home with the gargoyles. His clown-like face paint was framed by deep black hair and intense brown eyes that seemed to pull you deep into them. There was something almost ethereal about him, nearly as if he glowed in the pale moonlight engulfing them both.
Note: My fic inspired by Brandon Lee’s portrayal, posted both here and on AO3. Please feel free to leave a like and comment so I know I'm not just throwing this fic into the abyss
Chapter One: Can’t Find My Way Home.
Blinding… That is the only way to describe her rage's effect on her… Blinding… like a flashlight clumsily pointed in your direction or a train rapidly approaching, unwavering in its journey and uncaring what was in the way. She was inconsolable after they told her the news. Her closest friend suddenly and unexpectedly passed away after having no signs of deterioration whatsoever. When she remembers, she feels like she's still there in that hospital room. Her ears ring as doctors ask a flurry of questions that she can’t answer, not because she doesn't know the answers but because her mouth just refuses to form the words. The bubbling of emotions threatening to boil over is unbearable; she thought she had prepared for this… “Stupid fucking idiot!” She reprimands aloud, boots slogging through the dense, earthy surrounds of the cemetery just outside the city. She walked straight back into the emotional turmoil of losing her mother; she promised herself she wouldn't work herself up, today of all days especially. Today marked one year since her friend's death, a whole year. One year without her closest confidant, a year of benders ending with her curled up next to a toilet, calling her friend's voice mail despite knowing it was futile. She would never get the answer she sought at the end of that dial tone, no matter how many tears were shed… The dead can't come back.
Every week, she would bring flowers to her grave. No matter how much it hurt, she pushed herself; she knew her companion's biggest fear was being forgotten, and she couldn't bear the thought of her being right. Every week, she had to put herself through the same bitter cycle of grief, and she knew she couldn't keep going like this. She just didn't know how else to cope. She trudged closer to her destination, fists whitening from her stone grip on the wilted pink Chrysanthemums. It happened to every flower that made its way to the grave; no matter how hard she tried, they always ended up crushed, and in that regard, she could relate to the poor flora withering in her palms.
The headstone slowly entered her view, the night's fog limiting it momentarily. The pot of emotions she thought she had under control started to boil wildly and without warning. Tears erupted ungraciously, blinding her vision as she approached, unaware of the crow mounted atop the grey stone watching her intently.
A grating caw pulled her from her mourning. Startled by the black bird as she kneeled, she looked up at it, and its eyes were hypnotising. It cocked its head as if almost to ask, “What's wrong?” and that's when laughter burst from her mouth. “I must be going nuts if I think a bird is concerned for me!” She manically exclaimed, running her hands through her hair to soothe herself. It wasn't working, not this time. “Sometimes, seeing truly is believing.” a bleak voice beside her called, snapping her back. Dropping her bag and flowers, she scurried away, hyper-aware of the reality of being in a cemetery alone with a stranger in the late hours of the night. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she could see a crouched man dressed in all black, rips and tears covering his attire, squatting on the sides of the mausoleum as if he were a fierce stone protector right at home with the gargoyles. His clown-like face paint was framed by deep black hair and intense brown eyes that seemed to pull you deep into them. There was something almost ethereal about him, nearly as if he glowed in the pale moonlight engulfing them both. Seeing her reaction to his presence, he shot his hands up, seemingly to say, “I’m no threat to you.” It was comforting in a strange way. Despite his ghostly exterior, she felt that there was something more to him, something tragic. His eyes held sorrow and grief, just as hers did. ‘Probably just another poor grieving soul.’ She speculated, feeling foolish for her initial reaction to his presence. “What do you mean?” She quizzed, referring to his opening line. She hadn't said anything, yet he had read her mind. “The bird, you thought you were going crazy because it could understand you. If you see it, believe it,” The leather-clad man stated as if it were something everyone would know.
“That's an odd icebreaker” She quipped, straightening herself up. “Got a name, Mr Lurker?” Stretching out her hand to formally introduce herself to the man. She's done stranger things.
He stared at her hand as if contemplating the minor gesture. After a moment, he shook his head. ' Oh,’ she thought.
“Don’t do physical contact” Fell bluntly from his blackened lips as he looked away. Her hand wavered for a moment before returning to its place beside her. “Hey, fair enough, man, the chick you just met in a graveyard probably has heaps of diseases. I don’t blame you.” She chuckled, turning her head towards a grave, any of them to not face the embarrassment of her word vomit.
Eyes flicking from graves to the man, the woman sucked in a breath as if to build the courage to ask.
“So, what brings you this neck of the woods?” He stared again, trying to read her face.
“Only two types of people come to these places at such an hour: criminals and mourners.” He laughed, a haunting laugh that almost echoed off the surrounding statutes and monuments. She was entranced in how alluringly beautiful he looked as the smile spread across his monochromatic features. The crow landing on her shoulder broke her out of her daze. “So which are you? We friend or foe?” She jested, bringing her hand up to her shoulder, stroking the feathered creature with her pointer finger.
Her eyes moved from his face to the disturbing sight beside him: an overturned grave. She couldn’t make out the deceased's name but could do the math. Sketchy stranger plus disrupted grave equals criminal, a thought that caused anxiety to rise to the surface despite his good looks.
She slowly rose to make a quick escape, seeing as though she had just interrupted a looter, and she didn't want to end up in that empty grave. He saw her alarm and quickly cried out as she turned to run, crow flapping away from the perch on her shoulder.
“It's my grave!” Well, that certainly is a good way to stun someone. Ever so gently, she turned to face the unknown clown-covered man, contemplating how even to address the statement he so brazenly blurted out. ‘What the fuck does that mean?!’
Before she could verbalise her confusion, he was suddenly in front of her as if by magic. His hand flew to her mouth as he pulled her towards the mausoleum, keeping her from screaming. Her arms and legs flailed wildly in vain as he pinned her to the wall inside. “Hush now; no harm will come to you.” He whispered curtly. “There is someone here; they are responsible for the grave. If I take my hand away, do you promise to be good?”
All she could do was nod, eyes wide in fear and confusion. He eyed her carefully, steadily removing his hand, testing if she would keep her word. She did.
“Thank you. If your kindness could extend a tad longer, that would be appreciated. We have a visitor, " he said, crouching at the tomb's gated entrance to get a better look at who was approaching. She joined, slightly behind him.
It was a cloaked figure, steadily encroaching on the mangled grave. A heavily bangled arm outstretched to pick up the wilted chrysanthemums, crouching as they grabbed them. Low, angry muttering could barely be heard by the shrouded pair when suddenly, the flowers set ablaze in the figure's hands. More curses left the form as they clapped their hands over the empty grave, shaking the remaining cinders from their skin with the loud clangs of their bracelets that echoed through the graveyard. Visibly frustrated, the figure turned to leave quickly as if on a mission.
She didn't realise she had been holding her breath until her body reminded her of her oh-so-important need for oxygen. Spluttering as she attempted to regain a semblance of control of her body, the man before her turned to meet her gaze as if almost to say, “You mind?”
“Sorry”, She started, “I’m not accustomed to hiding from hooded figures.” If the joke landed, his face did not show it.
“What happened to the whole ‘Don't do physical contact thing’?”
He peeked out to ensure the coast was clear, ignoring her before straightening up and extending his arm. Rapid flaps could be heard as the forgotten crow took its place upon his arm before turning to its owner; when they locked eyes, it seemed almost as if they were communicating with each other telepathically. ‘What the fuck is happening?’ The woman thought. “Go home, it’s not safe here.” Well, that much was apparent. Hastily, she skirted around the man to begin scooping up the contents of her bag back into its home. This had been creepy enough to last her a lifetime.
The man watched her fumble and tumble out of the cemetery, not moving until she was out of sight. He made his way back to the decrepit grave, wracking his mind: ‘Why am I here? I thought this was over with. How am I back? Who was that figure?’ His eyes slowly drifted from the carved-out words ‘Eric Draven’ to the name on the adjacent grave, ‘Shelly Webster’, his heart rapidly thumping, threatening to leave his chest.
“I tried to come home, Shelly; why can't I return to you?” He wept, kneeling beside her headstone. His head met his hands as he unleashed his sorrow and frustration. ‘It’s not fair; what cruel being keeps us apart?’
Next to his grieving form, he could hear tiny taps of scale-like feet. Pulling him from his pity, the crow had dropped something beside him. Reaching out, he picked up the object, a driver's license. Seemingly, it belonged to the woman who had mistaken him for a thug. Gazing towards his feathered companion, he muttered,
“Suppose it’s time for a formal introduction.”
Alright, folks lemme know what you all think With Love, Blissful Crow <3
I stood dead at a grave that was not mine
a friend of a friend long since gone, though
killing me only now.
grief is as death,
is as life,
is as humanity.
May you burn with the monster that plagues your soul; may you lay in the ashes of your very sins and damnation. May the devil do with you as he sees fit and throw you deep into the pits of the eternal hellfire, and may you reap what you have sown.
Cole, Tacita Corvus (my book)
Sometimes you watch an hours worth of hopecore videos at midnight and you have to draw your old dog.
My sweet boy passed away in April of 2023 and I still miss him everyday but you know what? I don’t think I ever remember him not liking someone, so if you’re feeling down, remember that wherever the dogs go in the end, there’s a 14 year old vizsla who loves you, and he has bright eyes, soft ears, and wants to find a way to sit on your lap.
“Wherever you are, I hope there’s a desert, and a car for you to chase.” - a line from a poem by me.
I miss you. You were so beautiful.
On a more technical note, I rarely ever crosshatch and I’m definitely not confident in it, but I’m here to try new things.
Buttercup (Invincible)
Author’s note: as someone who lost my mom, I had to write for full mask mark losing his mom. Different circumstances, but still has grief all the same
Warnings: Death, grief
(Technically a short story for the Invincible AVRP AU but can be read by itself)
Characters: Full Mask Mark Grayson, Debbie Grayson
💛🕊💫🌼☁️ 💛🕊💫🌼☁️ 💛🕊💫🌼☁️
“Mama!” His high pitched child voice squeaks out, running to her with open arms as if he forgot she was there with him. She smiles wider as he kneels down to his level, opening her arms wide. He giggles and crashes full force into her, knowing that she will always be there to catch him, to break his fall. He laughs as she hums “woah!” At his enthusiasm to ses her. She lifts him up into her arms, wrapping them around his tiny body to make sure he’s secure. Nothing will hurt him.
“Look mama!” He hands her the flower, and she gasps and takes it from his delicate hands.
“Woah, thank you, sweetie.” He beams at the praise.
“Do you know what flower this is?” He shakes his head in return.
“This is a buttercup, if you hold it under your chin and your chin is yellow it means you like butter” he gasps in return and lets his mother hold it under his chin.
“Oh, looks like someone likes butter” she teases and lightly tickles his tummy. He giggles in response before chuckling out, “now you try mama!”
She hums and holds it under her chin with a smile, the buttercup glowing a yellow hue under her chin, “is my chin yellow”
He gasps and nods, like this is some sort of witchcraft he’s never seen before.
“Let’s go see if your dad likes butter” Mark cheers as she lets him down, holding the buttercup as his tiny legs run to his dad.
—💛🕊💫🌼☁️
“Do you remember that, mom? After that I have always picked you a buttercup or two on Mother’s Day until I was able to buy my own flowers. Always of a yellow variety though, it has to be in theme,” he chuckles weakly before talking again, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom”
Mark pressed a soft kiss to her temple, as tears dropped onto her pale skin. He pulls away, as he stares at her lifeless body. He can’t let go though, they haven’t had enough time together. They never got to go on a mother-son vacation, she will never see him have children, she will never get to even reach the age of 60. In his head, he hopes by some miracle she will gasp for air again, but he’s tried all he could. CPR didn’t even work but crushed her ribs.
He carried her over to the couch, hugging her close and he pulled a blanket over her. He doesn’t want her to get cold, she always hated the cold. Out during sunny days was what she loved. The yellow lilies, daffodils and buttercups were wilted on the floor, the water spilling, the vase shattered.
He runs a hand over her cheek, feeling her body slowly get cooler. He clenches his teeth, thinking of all the times she said I love you, and he wished he said them back. Or the times he would rush out of the house to play at a friend’s house and she looked disappointed that he didn’t stay to eat her cooking. Or when he would play with his dad more than her. What if she hates him for that? He’s sure hating himself right now for that.
He hums a tune to an old song they used to play in the car as he braids her hair. He knows she’s dead, even if he doesn’t want to accept it, but she deserves to look beautiful even after she lives.
—💛🕊💫🌼☁️
“Mama?”
Debbie turns, she hadn’t heard Mark use that name in a while. He looks in shock, on the verge of tears, and he wraps her in an almost crushing hug- literally.
“Mark?! What’s gotten into you? We had dinner together yesterday. Are you happy to see me?” She chuckles it off.
“Mom, oh god- I want you to know I love you, you mean the world to me. You raised me better than this” He rambles as his voice quivers, his eyes watering and ready to overflow.
“Mark? Seriously, what’s wrong?”
“I got you these”
He hands her a bouquet of lilies, daffodils and buttercups, with specks of dirt on them like he found them and pulled them from the dirt himself.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mama…”
I am grieving the living more than I am grieving the dead
I cry over people who don't even think about me anymore
And it hurts knowing they will never want me back
mm I love feeling things. love when something makes me want to run face first into it. i don't care if its love, grief, anger, happiness or dread even. i love when them to engulf me. i love people who make me feel things. i really just want to hold them in my palm and like swallow them whole. i love running my hands through things like grass, hold it against the wind, hold water in them and so much more. gosh there's so much feeling in me i want to tear my hair out and run into a wall.
Me & Christine
A piece of my heart is buried with you, anxiously beating below the sand and soil where you lie.
I kneel next to your grave desperately needing to dig my way back to you.
Maybe if I can retrieve the other half of my heart, you'll somehow come back with it.
Our memories have no rhyme or reason because my heart lacks any consistent beat anymore.
Nearly every ounce of its will throbs tiredly remaining buried beneath the ground, as it rests in the shadow of what was left behind when your soul left your body.
-kalika
crush it.
i hold violence in my hands so i can crush it.
like citrus in a damn Sunkist,
i love it.
rinds of benevolence just can’t cut it.
can’t quit this;
can’t rise above it,
cause the juice is worth the squeeze.
poisoned orange intravenously,
fruit of the poisonous tree;
peel back what’s inevitably
flowing cold inside of me.
my anger chills righteously—
hellish from the seventh to ninth zone.
so-da freeze’s frigid to the depths
of my spinal bones
close to my heart;
can i kill the bicarbonate spark?
so-di-um salt tears can’t boil over
as acid starts to depart,
leaving a mark.
like angry chem-trails grieving the sky;
sickening all
that can’t bear to say goodbye.
pop another top, squash it with a sigh.
addicted to the misery, to the high—
to sugary sweet trickery,
and i don’t know why.
-kalika
Sea Me
-kalika
Golden mornings and cool sea breezes brought them together.
Playful touches turned to yearnings with depth.
Days passed and love grew.
Until one day a shadow came uninvited.
Soon enough hell broke loose.
Still they managed to find their homes in the arms of the other.
But fate is bitter and sour and cruel.
It took away the black haired boy from his lover.
And left the other to grieve forever.
But what no one saw was the rage deep in the blues.
While the golden haired burned the world alive,
fate watched in the corner scared and small.
When the Trojans took away his home, his love, what could Achilles do except grieve for Patroclus.
And his grief brought the mighty warriors to their knees.
Troy did not not lose the war. Nor did the Greek win it.
Achilles grieved for Patroclus, and soon enough the war ended.
Being estranged from your sibling you endured years of physical and emotional torture from but also used to be very close to and looked up to as a kid kind of feels like getting your heart ripped out of your chest every single day
Yesterday, I lost my father to a sudden stroke 😢💔 💔
He was supposed to have surgery today, but I couldn’t afford the medication. If I had the money, he might still be with us.
In Gaza, it’s not just illness that kills . it’s poverty, blockade, and lack of access to care. He died in front of me, and I was powerless.
Please, help me prevent this from happening again.
Your support, your share, your voice ,
it can truly save a life. 🙏🏼💔
Rip dad 🙏🏼
And today, with a broken heart, I ask you: Please help so I don’t lose someone else. Any donation, share, or voice matters.Even the smallest act can save a life. 🙏🏼💔 Donate here
✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #588 )✅️
I remember eating moldy strawberries on the porch with you. You picked the fuzzy ones up between your yellow fingers and you ate them for me. Why did you smoke so much? You taught me how to play chess, with those hands. Did it mean anything to you? My young hand in your leathered palm. It didn't to me. I remember you telling me it was good for me; the mold.
watching television, marie howe
{—Amy Lowell, from The Complete Poetical Works of Amy Lowell, "The Fruit Garden Path " // Mahmoud Darwish }
[Quotes:Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides/ prayer, tathève simonyan/carole maso, the art lover /Audre Lorde, from a letter to Pat Parker featured in Sister Love: The Letters of Audre Lorde & Pat Parker/Jannate winterson/Takuboku Ishikawa, tr. by Tamae K. Prindle, from The Selected Poems; "A Love Song to Myself,"/Ashe Vernon, from "Buried," Not a Girl/Marion James, Black Leopard, Red Wolf//paintings: Pinterest]
Clarice Lispector, from “That’s Where I’m Going”, Soulstorm: Stories (tr. Alexis Levitin)
every cell in my body greets grief in the morning and yet i keep getting up to live more
Jamie Anderson/Glennon Doyle Melton, Love Warrior
Grief and love are interconnected
F. Scott Fitzgerald, from a letter to Zelda Fitzgerald
Jane O. Wayne // Kate Jacobs