seven seeds | {kaitlin/dars}
Sept 22, 2020 12:17:39 GMT -5
Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Sept 22, 2020 12:17:39 GMT -5
The biting wind of early autumn made my knuckles ache and the overcast-lighting made the graveyard — an already abnormally unsettling mass of stone identifiers and dry grass — seem more frightening still. I tucked my hands into the pockets of my jacket and kept my chin down, hoping that ignoring the looming sense of dread that always seemed to accompany these most melancholy visits would make it go away. It didn't.
I always hated this place.
Even before it became the resting place for my parents, Gordy and I had made some silent pack, a look exchanged or an absence of sound when we passed it on our way to school, as if we were holding our breath until we were past it: we would never end up here. It was a nice sentiment, the belief that we were invincible despite knowing without doubt how temporary existence could become. But he'd always been more restless than me; maybe I was the only one pretending that I might get to live forever. Maybe he truly, deeply within himself, thought he would be eternal.
Aunt Maggie didn't seem to love the idea of me returning so often. At least not now, when it had been two years since that night and it seemed like coming back only ever made me feel worse, but some nights the burns on my palms seemed so fresh that I could practically smell that awful smell of my own skin burning as I tried and failed to open the door to my parents' bedroom. Some nights, I heard my mother's voice in the wind. Some nights, I woke with a start and swore my father had just been standing at the end of my bed.
I decided to leave the dead to their devices as soon as they left me to mine, and neither of us had budged yet. So, I found myself standing at the mouth of their awful end, and it smiled at me with crooked teeth and a cold, hoarse laugh. The flowers I had planted were dead.
No, I don't think I believed in immortality at all. The sun, the moon, the stars. The flowers in the earth, the frost of winter, the fog that clouded my windows in the early morning. It all would pass, it all would break, it all would burn, it all would end, and I was no different. But it was still nice to pretend.
I noticed a looming presence in the distance, a boy I'd seen on several of my visits. Son of the gravediggers. His parents took the hands of the dead and escorted them to whatever came next, planted their bodies in Vivuus Cemetary and left them to rot.
"Excuse me," I said, walking up to him with my jaw set. He had quite severe features: a painting of a young man more than a real one, with perfectly pale skin and dark curls of hair. He loomed tall and thin, with skinny limbs and eyes of brooding winter nights and, as far as I could recall, a permanent scowl affixed to his face.
"My parents' garden is dead. The flowers need to be completely replaced now." I was aware of the irritation in my voice, but I didn't care enough to apologize. My existence was limited; there wasn't enough time for sorry.
I folded my arms across my chest and waited for an explanation. Maybe the sprinkler system had broken again; it wouldn't have been the first time. Or maybe someone had forgotten to turn it on. Or maybe they thought it didn't matter with winter closing in, and maybe they were right. But I didn't care. Perhaps my issue was not that the flowers were dead, but that my parents still were.
"Well?" I asked.