There was only a moment of calm before it started. Choas made haste with his arrival, and soon a cacophony of screams and breaking things rose high in the space around me. Worn books, old knick-knacks and still occupied vases beat the walls as they violently sailed across the room. Tables and chairs were flipped and smashed against against one another, while dressers were overturned and doors littered with dents and holes. The broken song of destruction rang loud in my ears as I watched with wild eyes the constant spray of glass and splintered wood cover the floor. I felt a dull pain in my leg, but I didn't look to see what it was. The turmoil pressed on and I didn't try to stop it. I gave in to it before I stepped through the door. I would let it take whatever it wanted; hurt me however it saw fit.

When the last fallen object joined the rest, I took my own place among the ruin. I sat down and felt the silence settle over my shoulders. As I looked over all the sad and broken things, my eyes fell on one of the few items left standing: a picture frame. I stared at it for a long while, neatly tucked in its corner on the bookshelf, and I thought about why I did what I did.

"It doesn't feel like a home without you here," I heard myself whisper.

Then, for the first time, I let myself grieve. The shattered glass and broken furniture made it seem like a tornado had passed through, but it was something much worse: our life had been taken from us before we had the chance to live it. We ran out of time far too quickly. And as I wept, I wondered if this is what it was to be human, if all that's meant for us is to create a life for ourselves, only to lose it; to build a home, only to tear it down again.