Free Learning to Trust: Curtain Falls by B. B. Roman

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    Although it happens everywhere every day, there is no way to fully (and properly) prepare to deal with death. You can brace yourself for impact (which might be imperfect) , or shirk and hide, burying it all inside of you and pretending that it was never a real thing at all (also imperfect) .
    Th e problem is, when you hold onto it like that , it can become like a poison, one that rushes through your veins and e ventually drowns you in an absolute sea of sorrow— un less you embrace it. By delaying, you create the literal possibility of a mountain out of a molehill, a ceaseless avalanche, a crumbling, decaying structure that houses nothing but poorly addressed regret and hurt. Going head-to-head with death hurts more up front, but lessens the long-term burden.
    I lost relatives growing up like most kids. None of them were that close to me, so it wasn't that huge of a deal . Sure, I was sad when my grandmother passed away—but it wasn't for me at all what it was like for my mother. She cried and cried and cried, a significant part of her life suddenly wiped away. The only thing that remained was memories, memories that she could pretend to perceive with her senses, pretend to experience in her mind. It was only temporary pain though, and soon time began to clean the slate.
    It became harder for her to remember, harder for her to feel . I wouldn't want to call it numbness , because I don't think that's w hat it was. It was more of a gre y acceptance, something that was bland, yet satisfying enough to permit her to move on . She wanted it, yet she didn't want to admit that she did. And that wa s exactly how I felt right now— I was begging to be over this, even though I hadn't come to terms with any of it. Imperfect .
    Is this how soldiers felt? Assassins ? CEOs of companies that acted immoral and greedy? I honestly felt like my skeleton wanted to burst out of my body, my backbone and morals departing and leaving me a flimsy mess of sagging flesh and blood. As usual, I was thinking about the consequences of my actions, wishing that I'd never met with Ramón even though I was a part of something much greater than myself.
    Damnit! Why had I listened to him when he told me to do the drop-off? This was his fault, right? It wasn't my fault. I just was playing along with his bigger scheme!
    But p eople were dead . Not just that scumbag, Marcu s— innocent people . There was a bomb in that briefcase and I'm the one that took it into the building. Sure, I could try to blame the guard outside for not checking the contents of the case more thoroughly. I could blame Ramón for telling me to do it. I could blame Roland for obviously masterminding the whole thing. Yes , I had to blame Roland no matter what. But there still was that inevitable fact that I took the case in there and left it.
    I started to sob, thinking about how much I had hated Marcus after our encounter. He was an awful, awful man, but I hadn't wished for anything like this. Yeah, he got what was coming to him—but why did it have to be this ? Thinking about the previous day—that beautiful, perfect day with Roland that every girl dreamed of—made my nausea return. I was dry heaving and crying at the same ti me, my tears collecting in the water of the toilet bowl .
    God, people had died at my hands . Damn you, Roland!
    I cursed the day I ever took the assignment to come here. All I wanted to do was move up, to get a good story and establish myself as an authority in the industry. Sure, this was a great story , all right. I was right in the middle of the action, dead center amongst the controversy. Couldn't I go to jail over this? The thought brought out even more tears.
    How much could I possibly cry ? I was certain I'd never work as a reporter again after this. I felt ashamed to even consider myself a reporter at all.
    Time became a blur, and I stayed in the bathroom until I could stand up again. Had it been hours ? Minutes ? I had no clue. I left my purse