Psychro Killer: Chapter 2 - Grief

The apartment greeted him like a mausoleum. Cold, still, haunted. He stood at the doorway, half expecting Zoe to be there, lying on the unmade bed, her hair sprawled messily over the pillow. But there was only the shape of her absence, an imprint left on the crumpled sheets, as if she’d only just gotten up to use the bathroom. He felt dizzy, his legs unwilling to carry him forward, as if entering this space without her might disturb some delicate balance between the living and the dead.

On the table, a shopping list scribbled in her careless handwriting lay abandoned next to a half-eaten apple. She’s always like that—was—he corrected himself. She was always mindless about finishing things. The list was an absurd testament to how her mind flitted from one thing to the next: milk, oat biscuits, something fancy for dinner. They were supposed to be at that restaurant tonight, after all. Almost three months they had waited for this dinner reservation.

He slumped into a chair, his hand reaching for his phone. He played her last voicemail, the one he had been replaying in his mind since the hospital, her voice still vibrant, still alive in this recording.

"Hi Niks, God of music, or whatever you’d like to be called. I’m just finishing here and I’ll be on my way. Can’t wait to see what all the fuss is about at Gymkhana! I love you, I’ll see you soon."

Over and over again.

I love you, I’ll see you soon.

He pressed play again, letting it loop endlessly, the only thing left of her voice in this world. It was like a cruel joke. He’d never hear her say those words again, but here, she was full of life, on her way, optimistic, oblivious to the fact that she wouldn’t make it.

Niko’s gaze fell on the notes for the upcoming performance. Sheets of meticulously handwritten music, phrases marked with arrows, cues for the musicians, every detail accounted for. He picked up the score with trembling hands, flicking through the pages, but it was meaningless now. Every note felt hollow, like a ghost of a world that no longer existed.

What’s the point? He wondered. What was he going to do with any of this? Music, art, his entire life—it had all collapsed into this singular, incomprehensible void. Zoe was gone.

He dialled the opera company, his voice flat, mechanical. “I need a few days,” he said. “Family emergency.” He gave no further explanation, hung up the phone, and stared at the unopened bottle of red wine on the counter. He’d thought about drinking, music on full blast, drowning out his thoughts with something mindless. But no. Silence was more appropriate. More real. If he was going to face this new, awful reality, he had to do it sober, unshielded from the pain.

Slowly, he lowered himself onto their bed, sinking into the mattress that still smelled like her—faint traces of her perfume, her skin. He buried his face into the sheets, inhaling deeply, as though he could somehow bring her back through the sheer force of his longing. And then, the tears came. Harsh, guttural sobs poured from his emptying lungs as he screamed into the fabric. He cried for what felt like hours, his throat raw, until finally, exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep, the wine still untouched on the kitchen counter.

The days passed in a blur of tasks. He went through her things, touching every item as if they could somehow anchor him to her memory. There were the clothes she’d worn just last week, shoes she would never again step into, scattered books on subjects he’d never cared for but she’d devoured—poetry, philosophy, novels he’d teased her about. Each item felt like a relic of a world that had ended too abruptly.

He picked up her diaries, the ones she kept sporadically, each filled with moments that only she had known. Pages of fleeting thoughts, forgotten dreams. Perfume bottles cluttered her vanity, waiting in vain for their mistress to spritz them on her neck before a night out.

She’ll never touch any of these things again.

Her absence became more overwhelming with each passing hour. Everything felt wrong, incomplete. He found himself tidying, organising her belongings, as though he could make sense of it all by creating some semblance of order. But nothing helped. Nothing brought any clarity or peace. Not even when he smashed that stupid vase she’d bought which he detested. That little expression of his own will over her powerless ghost left him with instant regret. 

The funeral arrangements fell to her parents. He couldn’t deal with it. Not yet. They asked if he wanted to be involved, but his voice faltered as he declined. Sarah had been kind, understanding. Mike more practical, pushing forward with logistics. They were grieving, too, but Niko had retreated into himself, lost in this new, desolate world.

As for his role at the opera house, Niko knew the decision he was facing. The assistant conductor was an option, but it would be a sign of weakness—of failure. His reputation, built meticulously over years, would suffer. Yet how could he stand before the orchestra, baton in hand, and conduct a piece that meant nothing to him anymore? Every note would ring hollow, every gesture a mockery of his grief.

He wasn’t sure he could go back. Not yet. Maybe not ever.