Writing means not just staring ugliness in the face, but finding a way to embrace it.

I feel the monster of grief again, writhing in the empty space where my heart and stomach used to be. I gasp, pressing both palms to my chest. Now the monstrous thing has its claws around my throat, squeezing my airway. I twist and put my head between my knees, breathing until the strangled feeling leaves me.

I know that change is difficult, and comes slowly, and that it is the work of many days strung together in a long line until the origin of them is forgotten.

"What did you do?" I scream. "You die, I die too."

I could never hurt him enough to make his betrayal stop hurting. And it hurts, in every part of my body.

I glance at Tris. She grins at me, then leans in to whisper something to Christina. "Are you here to help or what, Stiff?" I say.

And I provide much- needed eye candy.