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differenteagletragedy · 6 months

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With the Baxter angst with mc drowning in a riptide, I’m curious as to what Cove’s (and our family in general) reaction is when we’re found and the days/weeks after our death. Thanks, I love your writing

Thank you so much! Here you go :)

"You ok, son?"

"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine."

Cliff watched as Cove came into the house, his arms full of shopping bags. He was most definitely not fine.

It had been a little over a week since you'd drowned, and Cove was just not himself. Not that Cliff expected he would be after such a traumatic loss, but his behavior was becoming more concerning every day and he wasn't sure what to do.

That night you'd gone out for a swim, your moms came knocking on the Holdens' door frantically around 10:00. Cliff had answered the door and hearing the commotion, Cove came out of his room. Pam and Noelani explained how you'd wanted to go to the ocean by yourself, but then you didn't come home and you didn't answer your phone. When they went to check on you, your things were on the beach but you were nowhere to be found.

Both men had set out to help look for you, as had many of the other neighbors. Authorities were called -- it was an unusually chaotic night for the quiet little street -- but by the morning, your body had been found.

Cliff was pretty sure Cove hadn't slept since.

He hadn't been down to the beach, which was understandable, even though it had been a nearly daily activity for him. But he also hadn't showered. Cliff had taken time away from the shop to be there for his son, but when he'd gone out for a quick grocery run one evening, he came back to a pile of sand in the hallway.

"It's time we got this out of the house," Cove had muttered, broom in hand.

Cliff didn't want to be overbearing -- honestly he had no idea how to help Cove through this -- so he'd watched as Cove did an overhaul of his bedroom. He took out his surfboard and tucked it somewhere out of sight, then packed his swim trunks and wetsuits in a trash bag and set them by the curb. Cliff did grab those up and put them away for him, sure that someday he might want to return to the beach, but as the days went on he stopped being so sure.

That day, when Cove had come in with his bags after a trip to town, Cliff followed him to his bedroom. His son didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't care that he had an audience. From the bags, he pulled out bubble wrap, a pack of rubber bands and some smaller plastic bags. He left again without a word, went back to his car, and came back with a cooler.

"What are you doing?" Cliff finally asked.

After taking the time to sort out his newly acquired supplies, Cove knelt down and grabbed a box from under his bed. He opened it, grabbed a few more items, then pushed it aside. He used his free hand to grab one of the smaller bags, and that's when he answered Cliff.

"I'm getting rid of the fish."

Cove was expressionless as he began the task of getting each individual fish into its own bag, securing it, then placing it inside the cooler. Cliff was taken aback for a number of reasons, a big one because he knew how much his son loved his pets. Another was that he was taking the fish off, with everything else that was going on, without a single tear falling.

"I think we need to talk," he said at last, but Cove wasn't interested.

"There's nothing to talk about. I don't want them anymore. Some guy in town is taking them, I'm going to drive them down there in a little bit."

"Cove," he said softly, reaching out to grab his son's shoulder. They both stayed silent, then the younger man let out a shaky sigh.

"I can't sleep, Dad," he said, looking at him for the first time that day. "I can't sleep with them in here. The water ..."

He glanced over to the tank, the little piece of the ocean he'd been so excited to have in his own room years ago. But now, since you were gone, it wasn't welcome anymore.

"Is that why you haven't been showering?"

He nodded.

"Have you been drinking?" Cliff asked. He'd known Cove hadn't been eating that much, but if he was developing this deep of an aversion to water, he wanted to make sure.

"I haven't been thirsty," Cove answered.

Cliff sighed, then decided it was time to take charge. He emptied Cove's hands, setting the scoop and net on the floor, then took him in his arms.

Cove started crying almost immediately.

"You have to take care of yourself," Cliff told him. "And if you can't right now, then you have to let me help you."

"I don't want to," Cove replied, his body wracked with sobs. "I don't want to do any of it."

He cried for a long time, sometimes slowing to a a near stop before starting up violently again. Cliff cried too, feeling utterly helpless. But eventually, when he didn't have any more tears, Cove went a little limp. He was exhausted.

"Come in here," Cliff told him. "I'll take care of it."

He moved to stand beside Cove, letting him lean against his side. He took him to the living room and laid him down on the couch, then grabbed the blanket that was thrown on the back of it to cover him up.

"I'll take care of it," he told him again. "Just sleep for now."

He kneeled on the floor next to Cove, stroking his hair until he drifted off. Then he went in his own bedroom, cleared off his dresser, and began the task of moving the fish tank in there.

When he was almost done, he heard a knock at the door. He moved quickly, not wanting to wake Cove, then quietly opened it and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. It was then that he saw Liz standing there stone-faced, a box in her arms.

"Hey, Liz," he said, trying for a smile but failing. "How are you all holding up?"

"Not great," she answered frankly. "Ma won't get out of bed. They're talking about selling the house but they want to think it through."

He nodded, not sure what to say to that. Liz looked down at the box, then back up at him and asked, "How's Cove?"

"About as good as you'd expect," he said.

"That bad, huh?"

Without waiting for a reply, she held up the box to Cliff.

"What's this?" he asked, taking it from her.

"It's ... it's for Cove. I think he'll appreciate it the most."

They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Liz excused herself, walking back across the street and going inside. After she closed the door, Cliff lifted the box's lid and took a peek.

Seashells, all different kinds and colors. He remembered you collecting them with Cove when you were younger, how much time you'd spent together on the beach looking for the best ones.

She was right. Cove would appreciate it the most.

He snuck back inside, box in hand, and moved past a lightly snoring Cove. He went back to his bedroom and put the box safely on his dresser by the tank.

Someday Cove would be ready for this again. He'd be ready for the water, and ready to remember you. Until then, Cliff could keep these memories safe.

#our life beginnings and always #our life #olba #cove holden #olba cove #our life cove #our life cliff #cliff holden #our life cove holden

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94reasons · 4 years

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Art Without a Home [Pt. 3] | Minhyuk x Reader

"Don't you think it's a bit rude to yell at strangers like that?" you asked the face staring down at you from a window. You tilted your head as he was searching for words in his head and then returned to your usual business. Every now and again you would find abandoned pieces of art staring on your way home, begging you to take them with you. After all, they do say that one man's trash is another man's treasure. And you agreed - someone deemed these paintings worthless of the space in their life, but they really gave your apartment an original touch, a personality. You dusted off your newly-found present with your hand, wondering who would routinely rob artwork of a home.

"What are you doing?" the strong voice boomed like thunder again.

"What do you care?" you mumbled under your breath. If he can't hear you, maybe he'll stop thinking this is a conversation.

"Hey, what are you doing in my trash?" he persisted, "Wait- why are you taking my painting?"

You let your newly acquired canvas lean against the large dumpster, having it wait a few moments for you like a child would wait for their mother while she talked to her friend she bumped into at the grocery store.

"Once it's out here, it's no longer yours," you yelled right at him as you took a couple of unsteady steps back to get a better look at this crazy person, "Even if this were your trash, and even if you did paint these - you threw them away, it means that you don't want them anymore. Well, I do, and I'm taking this one with me."

His face turned sour and he disappeared like the sun behind a cloud in a second. You shook your head at this brief but remarkably strange encounter. Just as the painting landed safely in the hands of its new owner, it got rowdy. 'Seriously', you thought to yourself, growing more annoyed, but turning around anyway.

"Why did you throw it away then if you didn't want anyone else taking it?" you firmly waved the canvas in front of this person's face. He was obviously processing a lot of emotions at that moment and stumbled over his words. It seemed that even he didn't know what he actually wanted. You hugged it against your chest as you stomped your foot against the hard concrete, "Exactly. Now excuse me, I'm taking this home, and next time you want to get rid of your art just give it to me or leave it in front of the building. I'm not a fan of the whole dumpster thing and it takes ages to get the smell out of my clothes and the painting." You put on a sweet smile as you waved at the bitter artist and walked away.

Minhyuk's feet were buried into the ground until a random passerby sped past him, rudely waking him from the wild trip in his thoughts as he bumped into his shoulder hard. Minhyuk rubbed the sore spot for a second before he decided it was probably about time to head back inside. He had a lot of thoughts creating absolute chaos in his head. Should I have ripped the canvas out of her hands? Why did I even make a scene? I did throw it in the trash. Is it even legal to dig through someone's trash? Or maybe. . . Should I have asked for her name? He shook the last silent question out of his head as he pushed the door to let himself back in. He lingered around for a while with his back against the door and his hand ready on the handle, not entirely sure what he was ready for, though. "What was I thinking," he whispered to himself, finally dragging his feet to his room.

#monsta x #monsta x imagines #monsta x fanfic #monsta x scenarios #monsta x minhyuk #minhyuk x reader #minhyuk fluff #minhyuk fanfic #shownu #wonho #minyhuk #kihyun #hyungwon #jooheon #i.m

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ewshannon · 4 years

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I Love My Mother's Killer

E.W. Shannon

At three a.m. on a Sunday morning, through a glass door, I saw mother take her last breath. The ICU doctor warned it wouldn't be a long drawn out process, but I think even the nurse and the respiratory therapist were a bit surprised at how quickly she stopped. Stopped being alive. Stopped being Mabel Harper. Stopped being Mom and Grandma. I was a little shocked at how fast she went from being my mother to being 'the body,' almost as if I could see the tether between her and the ethereal part of the universe sever in front of me.

I stood outside, in my hospital booties, gown, gloves, hair cover, mask, and face shield while they removed her breathing tube. Her nurse, Vanessa, looked up at me when she realized how quick death had come. She came out of the room, took a deep breath, and gave me the news. "I'm sorry Mr. Harper, she's already gone." She paused to let me process and perhaps breakdown. When it became obvious, I wasn't going to go into hysterics, she continued. "Just let the respiratory therapist come out and then you can go in."

"No, that's okay." I started taking off the protective gear and felt guilty at having wasted it just to stand in a hallway. Talking to strangers has never been a strength of mine and the circumstance of my mother's death, or I guess any death, made it even worse. All the autistic tics and traits I had worked so hard on to lessen or get rid of came back like somebody poured them over me from a bucket. The stutter, the inability to look someone in the face, the sweating, all descended upon me at once. "I-I-I-Is there a-a-a-anything else y-y-y-you need from me?"

Vanessa placed a hand on my arm. Even through my shirt and the gown and her glove, I could still feel her warmth. "You want to sit down?"

"N-n-n-n-no, I-I-I-I'll b-b-be okay. I just need to go d-d-d-d-do a b-b-breathing exerc-c-c-c-ise." On top of all the sweating and stuttering I had unconsciously begun crying and hadn't even realized it.

"Okay. Um, no, there's nothing else we need right now from you. We'll call the mortuary and they'll be in contact with you." She half looked at me with pity and half with awe. For months now her world had been a constant dialogue about COVID; for over a week she had seen me as a competent sane man, and now a certified medical freak stood in front of her coming apart at the seams. Having an evolving medical curiosity in front of her must have been a nice change of pace from the pandemic.

"Thank you for e-e-everything."

"No problem. Sorry for your loss." She patted my arm again and I felt her shift internally. Her voice changed into a hospital administrator to catch my attention. "Make sure you leave the face mask on until you leave the building and use hand sanitizer as you exit this unit, as well as when you exit the building downstairs.

"Thank you."

She went back into my mother's room and pulled a curtain across the glass door.

I don't remember leaving the unit, how I got downstairs and exited, how I found my car in the parking garage, or if I ever used any hand sanitizer. I just remember sobbing with my head leaned against the steering wheel, my tears snaking their way through the Chevy emblem before falling into my lap. Eventually I started the car and headed home. At first, I tried to craft what I would say to my daughters, Lily and Layla, but found I could either drive or work on a speech for my girls, but not both. So, I just drove and let my subconscious wander and it wasn't long before it took me back to that innocent day less than a month ago.

It's so stupid really. As a family we had been so careful to self-isolate as a group; it felt like Swiss Family Robinson, but with Wi-Fi. A drive-by birthday party for a seven-year-old is what started the death knell for mother. A boy named Asher, a friend of Lily's, stood in the driveway as, one by one, friends (and their obliging parents) stopped and sang Happy Birthday, hooked a gift bag onto a six foot metal pole usually used for skimming a pool, and then waited for the little boy to yell out "Thank you!" showing off all the open spaces in his mouth where teeth had fallen out as he grinned like an idiot.

The thought of giving Lily a list of rules never occurred to anyone. Her ten-year-old sister held only a tentative grasp on the word 'pandemic.' To Layla it meant the bully she'd acquired at the beginning of the year was now null and void, she could go to class in questionable states of dress at the dining room table, she was no longer the weird kid who ate hummus and sprouts sandwiches alone in the cafeteria, and, most importantly to her, she got to sleep in for an extra hour.

Lily, however, was quite different. Every teacher's report we'd gotten on her included the phrase "social butterfly" or some variation of "very verbal." In every group picture from school, Lily grabbed the focus by placing herself dead center, usually with half the students looking at her rather than the camera. Since birth she had always been everybody’s friend and greeted everyone with a hug. I always imagine her studying Layla and seeing how heavy and dour she was and deciding to be the complete opposite.

So, there we were on a warm day in May, I drove, my wife, Joy, sat up front with me, and my mother sat between Layla and Lily in the back seat. I don't know why I put the car in park that day as we sang and put our bag on the pole. Remembering the 'clunk' of the doors unlocking sometimes wakes me up at night. I can vividly remember the bright green bow falling off the bag and how fast Lily had been at getting out of her booster seat and out of the car. Before my wife or I could comprehend what was happening, she had picked up the bow off the asphalt, playfully stuck it to Asher's forehead, and hugged him. No mask, no gloves, no ridiculous two-foot wide piece of plexiglass like at the grocery store, just two children doing what you want children to do, being caring, thoughtful, kind, unreserved, and picking up their litter.

I wouldn't say our family has any real germaphobes, but we did exercise a bit of caution as the tallies of deaths and infections continued their upward trajectory on the news. Joy and I had surrendered to the idea of life with COVID rather than life after COVID. My wife still went to the grocery store with the girls in tow. My mother made them each twenty masks with different patterns, each girl getting their name embroidered in one of the corners, so instead of telling them they 'had' to wear a mask we just had to say, "Go pick out a special mask to go with your outfit." Of course, they weren't wearing masks that day, as we weren't supposed to be near anyone.

When Lily got back into the car and buckled herself into her booster seat, a noticeable silence that accompanied her. Joy broke the hush. "Here Lily, put some hand sanitizer on." She then covered Lily's little hands with ten pumps of hand gel from a Costco-sized container.

I looked back at Lily's glistening dripping hands and whispered in my wife's ear, "Unless you're going to pump it down her nose and throat, the damage is done."

She turned back around in her seat, put a single pump of hand gel on her own hands and took a deep breath as she nervously rubbed it in. "Yeah, you're right. I mean, what are the odds?" She shrugged her shoulders and gave me an unconvincing smile.

The next day Joy sent an email to Asher's mother to ask, with the utmost of political correctness, if their family might be harboring a deadly contagion. The reply came back quick assuring us that we had nothing to worry about and asking if we might be harboring a deadly contagion. "Remember when these emails were about kids biting and organizing bake sales," I asked her after reading the reply.

The day after that I caught my wife typing in 'how many days for covid symptoms after possible infection.' Before she could press 'enter' I answered her, "Two to fourteen days." She pressed 'enter' anyway and then let out a sigh with her head resting in her hands. "Told ya so."

"It might have updated since you looked." Her tense reply made me get up and massage her shoulders.

"It'll be okay. None of us are sick. Mom's been fine since she moved in after her hip surgery. Worst case, we get sick and we get over it." I tried my best to fill the statement with confidence, but the tiny bit of doubt I let slip by was all she heard. I looked across the foyer and saw Lily in my mother's room, sitting in her lap having a story read to her, and hoped I was right.

Two more days went by and then Joy woke up with flu-like symptoms, achy, fever, a slight cough, but nothing too alarming. The next day Layla woke with similar symptoms, but not as extreme. We tried to go through a drive-up testing site, but once my wife saw the line, she gave the order to turn back. "It's like Schrödinger’s cat, let’s just hope we only have to open two boxes," she said. They each had symptoms for three days and then they cleared. My wife attributed their miraculous recovery to the vegan diet she had put the family on the previous year. I gave more credit to luck.

Day twelve I woke to the sound of a duck on fire quacking from downstairs, at least that's what it sounded like to me. I found my mother in her chair coughing and felt her hot clammy head. "Get dressed Mom, we're going to the hospital." She didn't answer, just shook her head, and shuffled over to her closet. A few hours later she became a patient in the special COVID ward of our local hospital.

A few days later I got a call from Vanessa, just starting the night shift, telling me they had transferred my mother to the ICU and asking if she had a living will. While having a living will makes you feel prepared for death, when somebody outside your family asks to see it, it's the most ominous feeling ever.

Two lights away from the entrance to our neighborhood, in the small hours of the morning with a few of my mother's effects in a hospital bag on the floorboard, I pulled the car over into a 7-Eleven parking lot and vomited all over a Japanese Boxwood. It wasn't a virus causing me to hurl, but a thought, a window into the future. Someday Lily will look back on this, maybe she'll come across one of those masks with my mother's embroidery on it, maybe she'll just remember waking up to the horrible news, but at some point she might make the connection to the bow on Asher's head and her grandmother dying.

#ewshannon #covid stories #covid-19 #writing #original writing #writers on tumblr #artists on tumblr #original photography on tumblr #photographers on tumblr #lgbtq writers

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