Page 16 of Grim
History let me weep forlornly into my whiskey and write about birds and death! He’s the literary equivalent of an emo band lead singer who won’t stop writing songs about his high school ex.”
She gasps again, but this time, it’s a different kind of gasp—horrified and deeply personal.
“Kane”—her voice is hushed—“I need you to know that I have never wanted to commit actual homicide before this moment.”
I smirk, reveling in her distress. “Oh? Am I ruining the fantasy?”
“You are desecrating the sacred.” Rue snatches the book from my hands and holds it protectively against her chest. “Poe is the father of gothic literature, the architect of psychological horror. Without him, there is no H.P. Lovecraft, no Shirley Jackson, no Stephen King!”
“Yes, yes, without Poe, we’d have no obsessive freaks writing about ghosts and madness. Truly a loss to society,” I say dryly. “Tell me, Rue, do you also keep a quill on hand so you can write wistful odes to your own untimely demise?”
“Not all of us are dead inside, Kane,” she fires back.
I tilt my head, intrigued. “Aren’t you though?”
She stills, the sharp retort dying on her lips.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The weight of what I just said settles between us like dust on an old book—quiet but unshakable.
Then Rue does something that surprises me.
She laughs.
A soft, bitter chuckle, as if my words amused in the most tragic way possible.
“You know what’s funny?” she muses, sitting back down on the couch, hugging her Poe collection like a security blanket.
“You’re not wrong. I mean, if you think about it, I have been living like I was already dead.
Watching the world move around me. Waiting for the moment when my body finally decided to stop. ”
I study her carefully.
“You think Poe was melodramatic,” she continues, voice softer now, more tired.
“But you don’t get it. His writing wasn’t about death; it was about the fear of it.
About the inevitability of loss. How grief wraps around your ribs and squeezes until there’s nothing left of you.
How it turns you into a ghost long before you die. ”
She exhales sharply, her fingers tightening around the book. “I get Poe. I am Poe. A person trapped in the waiting room of her own demise.”
I open my mouth, then close it. For the first time, I find myself at a loss for words.
Because for the first time, I have nothing clever to say.
Rue watches me for a moment, then sighs and leans back, staring at the ceiling.
“But you know what?” she says, her voice picking up just a hint of its usual edge. “I have eight days left, Kane. And I am not going to waste them debating literature with a philistine.”
I snort, repeating her insult. “Philistine?”
She waves a hand. “You heard me,” she offers smugly, returning her treasured collection to the shelf.
“You’re right, Rue. Eight days is not a lot of time.” I begin, then finish with a quote from her precious Poe. “I think I hear the ‘ bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells’ now.”