Masking Grief Novels & Stories

I wore the black uniform of my office, a mask of unyielding stone. I stood beside the marble mausoleum, looking down at the heavy, closed casket. My mother had died months ago, her loss absorbed into the endless, grinding cycle of my command. But standing there now, after the cost of vengeance was tallied, the grief hit me with a savage, delayed force.

He replied. “Frankie, you’re anything but stupid. It was just a painful memory. Dr. Wolfe says that grief comes in waves. That we eventually learn to ‘surf’ those waves instead of them drowning us. Guess I am still at the drowning stage,” I replied. Frankie lifted my chin and looked me in the eyes and said, “I’m here and I won’t let you drown.” Then he kissed me tenderly.

She said in all honesty, earning a rude tilting of my brow. "What do you mean?" I inquired. "The death of loved ones often changes us in ways we don't understand. It was easy for you to seek distractions after their death because, as humans, we are programmed that way. Our brains try to find the easiest way to distract us from the truth, and while it's supposed to be a coping mechanism, some of us cling to that distraction, hiding from grief." She explained. "You never came to terms with their death, Jaxon. You have bottled up your grief for so long and holding back from grieving only causes more harm than good. It has eaten you since then, morphing you into an entirely different man."

Kaia's POV She cried quietly, which was how I knew she had been doing it for a long time. There is a meaningful distinction between new grief and practiced grief. New grief is loud and disorganized, built from the shock of something recent that has not yet been integrated into the understanding of how the world works. Practiced grief is different. It is contained, nearly silent, structured in the specific way of a thing that has been performed in controlled intervals under conditions that do not permit its full expression. The crying of someone who has learned exactly how much of this release they can allow themselves at one time without losing the composure that the situation requires — and

"Terribly. I'm exhausted, emotionally numb, and apparently headed for a breakdown if I don't start processing." "At least you're self-aware." Dr. Wilkins leans forward. "Hope, grief isn't a flood that drowns you. It's a wave that crashes over you. Yes, it's intense and overwhelming. But waves recede. They don't last forever. If you let yourself feel grief in controlled doses rather than avoiding it entirely, you'll find it's manageable." "Controlled doses of grief. How does that work?" "You schedule it. Set aside time each day—even just fifteen minutes—where you allow yourself to feel everything without judgment. Cry, rage, remember, whatever needs to come out. Then, when the time's up, you

Her sobs come in violent waves, shaking her entire body. "No, no, no," she keeps saying, the words muffled against Miles' chest. "Not Uncle Marcus. Please, no." Miles' face is a mask of pain, not his own, but hers. He absorbs her grief like it is his duty and his calling. His arms tighten around her, creating a fortress of his body, shielding her from the harsh hospital lights and curious eyes. His lips move against her temple, murmuring words I cannot hear, words that are not meant for me.

They'd sit together for hours, Selene doing homework while Nora knitted, comfortable in silence. "Thank you for being here for her," Riley told Selene. "She's my grandma. Where else would I be?" "You're a good kid." "I'm a teenager. We're supposed to be terrible." "You're terrible in other ways. This way, you're pretty great." "I'll take it." Isaac, at ten, tried to help Nora by explaining the science of grief to her. "Grief is caused by attachment," he lectured one evening. "When you lose someone you're attached to, your brain experiences it as a threat. That's why it hurts physically."

A pawn in a game she never understood, a victim of an unforeseen betrayal. Katherine sighed, the weight of her grief pressing against her. The birthday gala was only three days away, a huge event that would force her to confront her past—to stand in the shadow of the woman who had taken so much from her. She would walk into that gala with her head held high, masking the tempest inside with a facade of composure. A smile to shield herself from the world that had turned its back on her. But internally, the pain would always accompany her, a reminder of what she had lost and a testament to her broken heart.

Quiet girls don’t end up locked in cellars like beasts. But I’m not quiet now. I can’t be. My sobs echo off the stone walls, raw and scraping, as if the sound might carve a way out. My whole body shakes with the force of grief, fury, and terror all bleeding together. The mask is still watching. I hate it. I hate that I ever put it on. I hate that it made me beautiful for one night and then cursed me with this guilt.

“In our world, things like this happen. You take it on the chin and you keep moving.” The words slice through me. I break. Sobs tear out of me, ugly and loud. “This isn’t the first person you’ve lost,” he goes on, thumb brushing a tear away like he’s gentle, but his words aren’t. “And it won’t be the last. You have to get used to it.” Like grief is a coat I’m supposed to learn how to wear. I rip myself out of his hold and press into the car door, as far from him as I can get. I don’t speak for the rest of the ride.