Page 67 of Grim
We often fail to notice the significant changes that occur gradually over time. Humans miss the cues until the writing is painted on the walls in neon blood. People never seem to know until it’s too late.
But I know because I know what to look for. I can read the signs.
I’ve seen death up close for centuries. But watching it wear away at her day by day, like the tide carving out a shoreline, is unbearable. It’s frustrating, baffling. I’ve seen the worst this world has to offer both in my living and nonliving professions. I would suffer through the height of the plague a thousand times over if it meant not witnessing her drift any further.
And that thought? Fucking terrifying. Why? Why now? Why her? Why can’t I detach? Why must this infuriating creature continue to wiggle her way under my skin?
Rue does not notice me watching. Or if she does, she does not care. I turn and spy her coveted notebook abandoned on the coffee table, pages flipped open and carefully marked by a raven feather bookmark.
I glance down. Just a glance. But it’s enough. I see the title she’s written in thick letters across the top—I Know the When.
I look away briefly, but my curiosity consumes me. These are Rue’s private writings. If she wanted me to read them, she would share them. It’s not for me to pry. Even as I think this, I feel my eyes roaming back over the stanzas below the title, moving almost of their own volition.
My hand reaches out to grasp the book, and I take in the entirety of the page.
I Know theWhen
The steady pulsing of a beating heart
Reminds us of the finitude of time.
Each of us bound to a specific part.
Set number of days with only one rhyme.
My silver ticker beats out of rhythm.
Not the metaphor I hoped. Such a shame.
My disease creates a literal schism,
Though Fate and her rules apply just the same.
The difference, however: I know the when.
My story’s secrets revealed- a mistake.
Open my inkwell, pour forth from this pen.
What care I now for banal mortal’s ache?
What of my life will people remember?
Cold legacy will end this December.
My heart left me centuries ago, yet as I look over her words again, I feel the remnants of it cracking. Rue’s pain and resiliency mingle beautifully in her words, and I am overcome by a feeling I’ve worked tirelessly to suppress—shame.
I did this to her. I intervened in ways that I should not have, and the effects now fall squarely on Rue’s slender shoulders. I meddled in someone else’s timeline.Again.The results of my previous intervention cloud my mind and threaten to pull me under. I shake off the haunting memories for a moment and return to the sad present.
It’s not fair.
It is as simple as that, yet as complicated as it gets. She’s trying so hard to live in the seconds between the countdown. To leave something behind that isn’t just an echo. And all I can do is watch her tick away like an hourglass I can’t flip.
I clouded the end of her story. I misspoke and revealed her end date. I saddled her with impossible knowledge. Every soul knows they are destined to die. It’s the one certainty in life. But to be burdened with the exact date? The when and the how. That’s unthinkable, unfaceable. And I carelessly yoked her with that burdensome wisdom.
Amazingly, she continues to fight still. She continues to be brave and find ways to create meaning in the mundanity.
Despite her weakened physical state, Rue is so much stronger than—
