The 13th Guest

This is a short story I wrote back in February. I had lost Owen less than two months prior and I was doing a lot of self work, including working through a guided journal called "How to Carry What Can't be Fixed." In this exercise, I was challenged to think of myself in a fairy tale and I am the 13th guest to a party. Am I old and wise, bringing an uncomfortable gift to the party? Or am I lively and pretending to be jovial so no one will notice? And how do the people around me respond; are they afraid, superstitious, uncomfortable? Here is how I imagined myself, as the 13th Guest.

The 13th Guest sits at the end of the table. She eats her food quietly, every now and then looking up, smiling, trying to seem okay. She tries to eat slowly but soon realizes she has already finished and her plate is empty. Dammit.

She tugs at her sweater, trying to hide the scarlet letter of the bereaved. "Dinner was delicious" she blurts out. Her timing is always off these days. She takes another sip of wine. It's too sweet. Her head hurts already. She tries to follow the conversation at the table but can't focus. She tries recalling what she just ate. Was it lemon in the sauce? Without looking down, can she remember what color her shoes are? Where is her mind these days?

She looks at the faces of the others but she can't focus. Everything is in slow motion. Why are they eating so slowly?? Why are they talking so loud??

No one is talking to her. This is a relief! It's also sad. What if she just left the table? What if she just started screaming? If she knocked over the lit candle, would anyone notice? Please, no one ask her any questions. Let her stay invisible. Please notice her.

How to Carry What Can't Be Fixed: A Journal for Grief

by Amazon.com

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