•<Heal>•
                           Take my mind
                         And take my pain
           Like an empty bottle takes the rain
                   And heal, heal, heal, heal
                                     •
                                Tom Odell
Notice! Some chapters are going to have events that happened in the past, so to make this easy/less confusing, I'll be underlying the signs. In short, the past will have underlined signs like this (•<>•/•<<<>>>•) while the present won't. I hope it's clear. Back to the story.
                                     •<>•

                               2 months later

Upon wrapping up my last meeting with Mrs. Fletcher, my therapist, I leave her office feeling better than I did months ago. While the loss of Eric still lingers, I have found ways to cope with his passing and create positive memories in his honor. I used to wonder if the grief would ever fade away. If the dark days will someday go away. Although it's commonly believed that time heals all wounds, I personally found this not to be true. The pain of his loss continued to intensify with each passing moment.

However, Mrs Fletcher said something that has stuck with me since. If anything, it has changed how I view the process of grieving. She said that grief is like a wound that doesn't just heal and disappear. It doesn't even get any smaller.

She took out a plain white sheet of paper and drew a big black dot on it. Next, she began to shade the inside of the circle with a black marker, explaining that the black mark symbolized my pain.

She said that losing a loved one is the worst thing that can happen to someone, however, what happens is that over time, we begin to engage with this reality and we start to build new experiences around it.

As she explained this to me, she started to draw coloured circles around the black one, each colour representing the different parts of life we create around the black circle.

According to what she said, there are still moments of deep pain and sorrow, and that is true given what I've experienced. There are also moments of new joy, love, and purpose, and as those new layers of our lives build around our grief, our lives grow around the pain, so that even though the grief is still there, we can still create a life that is beautiful and meaningful to us.

She also touched on the subject that I've been in denial for a long time despite knowing that it's true. That's what I've been doing all my life. People pleasing, in my case, my family, my father especially. I lived with the anxiety and need to constantly try hard to be enough to him, and in the process of doing this, I found myself exhausted and somewhat losing myself. However, Mrs Fletcher helped me find a way to deal with it, and that is journaling.

She said that being able to see emotions and urges to act in certain ways, as echoes from the past, I can more easily experiment with going against those urges and experimenting with a new way of behaving. With journaling, I can ask myself what I would do differently if I felt more worthy of others' company. However uncomfortable and anxiety-provoking taking steps in this direction may be, taking the fear with me and seeing how far I can go does help.

On my drive home, I stop at one of Eric's favourite spots to get a drink. Unlike before, this act doesn't bring tears to my eyes. Instead, it fills me with a sense of peace and happiness I never thought I'd experience.

For the first time, I'm not drowning in self-loathing or blaming myself for the misfortunes that have befallen my family. I feel truly liberated, free from the long-held pain, anger, and self-pity that once consumed me. I've finally come to terms with Eric's passing. Though he's no longer physically here, I sense his presence with me wherever I go, and that brings me comfort.

As I continue my journey home, I turn on the radio and hear one of his favourite songs playing. I turn up the volume, smile, and roll down the window as I sing along to Avicii's song, "The Nights."

If that's not a sign that he's here with me, then I don't know what is.

The wind rushes through my hair, and the music plays on the radio as I sing along, not concerned about my lack of vocal skill. What matters is that I'm happy. It's a beautiful afternoon, and I'm determined to savour every moment, just as Eric would have wanted me to live my life—embracing joy and finding happiness.

                                   •<<<>>>•

The past few weeks have been both liberating and joyful. Since my father and I had that heart-to-heart, life has taken on a brighter hue. After discussing my desire to join James in Seattle and finding the courage to follow my heart after reading Eric's apology letter, I decided it was time to talk to my father, now that we were on better terms.

His surprise was evident when I shared my plans, and although he didn't agree with all of my choices, he reluctantly supported me in pursuing my passion, provided that I continue my responsibilities as vice president at his company in Seattle.

I knew taking on these two significant roles wouldn't be easy, but I was determined to keep my passion for art alive, no matter the challenge.

Keeping the family business running has always been my father's top priority. He has dedicated his life to building his empire, and I understand why he wants me to uphold his legacy. While Erin manages several firms across the UK with the help of her husband, I carry a significantly heavier burden, and any failures on my part could come with severe consequences.

With this weight on my shoulders, the pressure to ensure everything operates smoothly is greater than ever, especially with my newfound commitment to art.

During our conversation, my father surprised me by apologizing for his past mistakes—something I never expected him to acknowledge after all these years. Overwhelmed by the emotions, tears welled up in my eyes, and I struggled to contain a sob that was both painful to hold back and difficult to release.

We wrapped up the conversation with heartfelt words, and he patted my back, expressing how proud he was of me—a sentiment I had longed to hear from him for years.

While James and my father have been coordinating my transition to lead the company in Seattle, I have been diligently managing my current responsibilities. I've been traveling across Europe, meeting with clients, closing important deals, and simultaneously creating and selling paintings in honour of Mum.

                                 •<<<>>>•

After applying the final stroke to the canvas, I step back to admire the completed painting. This is yet another portrayal of the same enigmatic girl who has been haunting my nights—a mystery I can't seem to unravel despite my efforts.

I often question who she is and why she persistently appears in my thoughts and dreams. I've made attempts to find her, but without success, and it seems as though no one around me is willing or able to assist in finding her. It feels as though she might be a ghost or merely a figment of my imagination, though I find it hard to believe that could be the case.

I'm certain I saw her in the hospital that day; I spoke with her. James confirmed her existence, yet he hasn't offered to help me find her. He's been supportive in many areas of my life, so why is he unwilling to help me with this? Is there something he's hiding, something he doesn't want me to find out? If that's the case, then perhaps this mysterious girl—the journalist James mentioned—holds or knows something important, something my father and James want to keep from me.

Setting aside the brushes, paints, and canvas, I head to the bathroom to clean up. Upon turning on the shower, I drop my clothes in the washing basket and run a hand through my hair as I walk back inside the bathroom.

With the bathroom filling up with steam from the hot water, I wipe the mirror and take a moment to look at my reflection before stepping into the shower.

For some reason, my mind tells me to run a hand over my back, where scars serve as a constant reminder of the day I went to the railway station in search of Eric, days after he had left home.

In my search for Eric, hoping to either locate him or gather information about his whereabouts, I had a dangerous encounter with some of the men he frequently met—his suppliers. The railway station was a known meeting spot for them, so it was no surprise to see them there. Their faces were familiar, and it was clear they remembered me from when I tried to report them after recording their secret meeting with Eric. Unfortunately, that recording never led anywhere. They took my phone, destroyed the evidence, and with it, my chances of exposing them.

Their displeasure at seeing me was evident, and despite the voice in my head urging me to leave, I ignored it. I was determined to find Eric, even with the danger surrounding me.

As they started to approach me, fear consumed me but somehow I stood still, preparing for the worst. The second they closed the distance between us, one of the men started hurling cusses at me, and it wasn't long after that the rest of them joined in.

Things escalated in the blink of an eye when they dragged me away from the open and further into a secluded area where they took turns beating me up to a bloody pulp. Like that wasn't enough, they pushed my body into a fence, a barbed-wired fence that was serving as a barrier to a dangerous zone.

Whatever was on the side of the fence must have been dangerous to not have anyone hanging around in the area. However, that didn't stop the angry men from taking advantage of the isolation and privacy that the place provided.

As they repeatedly grazed my body against the barbed-wired fence, immense pain consumed my body while I cried and begged for mercy, however, they didn't care. Instead, they kept laughing at me, like they were getting a kick out of inflicting pain on me. Fortunately, two passersby heard the commotion from a distance and hurried over to investigate. Their arrival prompted the three men to release me and flee the scene before the strangers could catch them.

I slowly turn to examine my back and trace a line with my finger, noting the tattoo among the other lines etched into my skin from a month ago. I decided to cover my back with tattoos, not that I was trying to hide the scars, but rather to depict and enhance their beauty and importance.

Like Kintsugi, a Japanese process of repairing broken objects and turning them into something even more beautiful than the original piece. They repair not to hide the cracks but to highlight them with gold and celebrate their value so they become a part of the story and not the end of the story.

So instead of ignoring the scars or pretending that one of the worst never happened, I decided to give the scars meaning and purpose by using the tattoos to enhance the thing as a whole and celebrate the fact that the scars helped me become who I am today.

After one final run down my back, I take one final look in the mirror which is now foggy before stepping into the shower to clean off the paint that's coated my body and hands.

                                 •<<<>>>•

                            A Month Later

Standing in front of his grave, tears sting my eyes. Erin hands me a tissue and softly says, "Here," as my father, standing beside me, conceals the sadness in his eyes behind the dark shades he put on when we got out of the car.

The cemetery appears to be rather deserted, devoid of any people except for the workers who are situated at a distance from us. The scene is quite picturesque, with well-maintained grounds; the grass is lush and verdant, and an array of flowers adorn not just the graves but are also planted strategically to enhance the beauty and vibrancy of the surroundings.

My sister gently lowers herself to the ground and carefully sets her bouquet of orchid flowers on Eric's grave. She then starts talking to him, her voice tender despite the sadness in it. I can already hear her crying from the way her voice breaks, so I give Dad my flowers and help her up.

"I miss him so much," she sobs into my chest, and all I can do is gently rub her back while struggling to contain my own tears.

Once she regains her composure, she pulls away from my embrace and wipes her tears with the tissue Dad handed her.

After taking the bouquet of roses back from Dad, I gently place them on Eric's grave.

After sharing with him what I've been up to and how much I love and miss him, I pause to collect myself. Swallowing a sob, I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand.

"I love you, Eric. I always will," I finish, my voice trembling on the final words as Dad and Erin help me to my feet.

When it's Dad's turn, he gently places lilies on his grave and begins to speak to him. Despite wearing shades, the tremor in his voice reveals that his eyes are filled with tears. As he continues to speak to Eric, Erin rests her head on my shoulder, wrapping her arms around me while we listen to our father.

After hours spent visiting Eric and Mum—whose grave is nearby—we say our goodbyes and head back to the car.

Something about today, this moment, and this visit brings me a sense of peace and happiness that I've not felt before. Talking to them and believing that they are okay provides me with comfort. Although they are no longer physically present, they remain with us in our hearts, and we will keep their memory alive forever.

As we get into the car, Dad immediately plays his classical playlist, prompting Erin and me to playfully complain. Nonetheless, we settle in and wait patiently as he sticks with the music for half an hour before finally changing it.

Exchanging a knowing glance with Erin, I switch the music to something more suited to our tastes. Dad's reaction is to lean back and grumble, which makes Erin and I burst into chuckles as we crank up the volume.

                                        Lyrics

                 And take a heart. And take a hand
                Like an ocean takes the dirty sand
                        And heal, heal, hell, heal

AN

Note; The quotes I wrote above about how to deal with grief, people-pleasing, and the saying about what the Kintsugi symbolizes, I got them from Dr Julie. She's a psychologist and she posts videos on TikTok about mental health.

Also, we finally get to know how Ethan got the scars that Mallory asked him about earlier during their time in Cancun, even though he told her that the scars were due to a barbed-wired fence, he didn't tell her the whole truth.

***
Thank you so much for getting this far, much appreciated. Don't forget to vote, comment and share. It'd be nice to hear from you and your honest opinions/thoughts about the story.
🧡🤎