The Challege “Just grin and bear it.”

 The words reverberated within his head like a tuning fork. He repeated them out loud to himself like a mantra.
 “Just grin and bear it. Grin and bear it, man. Just grin. And bear it. Grin. And. Bear. It.”
 He started using accents.
 “Joost green ond beer it. Jost grahn ahn bar it. Jah, joost grin unt bar ut. Juice grin y bar it, main.”
 He wasn’t sure how, why, or just when it started to help him, but he was sure it did. Somehow, someway, and at some time the age-old adage began to take shape inside his mind.
 “Jus’ grin ‘n bear it, yo.”
 A shape.
 “Just grin and bear it.”
 Sharp.
 “Just grin and bear it.”
 A blade.
 “Just grin and bear it.”
 A dagger?
 “Just grin and bear it.”
 A sword?
 “Just grin and bear it.”
 Ah, a machete.
 “Just grin and bear it.”
 Now it made sense to him. He knew what he had to do. How to rectify the conundrum he found himself presently occupying. How to extract his revenge. Bring solace to his soul. Mend his broken heart.
 
 Her blood ran thick and bright red, like communion wine. She looked at him with horror in her eyes. Not compassion. Not forgiveness. Certainly not love. Horror. Sheer, abject horror. The kind of horror that could only come from hate. Not dislike. Not disdain. Not loathe. Hate. Unimaginable hate. The kind of hate that can only come from spoiled love.
 She looked at him with those horror-filled eyes and mouthed the words, “How could you?”
 He looked at her with his finally calm eyes. “Take your own advice. Just grin and bear it.”
 He dropped the machete. He walked away.
 He grinned.

Christopher Sipe