Don't Fear The Reaper

{xxv. my immortal}

❝Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.❞

-Macbeth by William Shakespeare

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It feels like months before I wake fully again, although I know it's less than 24 hours.

The whole night, I sleep fitfully, tossing and turning, waking up and tensing at every little sound. I fear Mor will show silently again like the man of shadows he is, and I will have to face him. But as my morning goes by, the reaper is nowhere to be seen.

The sun rises, but I don't get out of bed. I find myself continuing to go in and out of nonsensical half-asleep dreams. Young Will and I making sugar-on-snow, only for the maple syrup to turn into blood. Preteen Will and I visiting Texas, only to have him run away and become a cowboy, leaving me stranded in the middle of nowhere. Teenage Will and I in a truck, the night of prom, laughing like nothing is wrong as the guitar riff of (Don't Fear) The Reaper begins to play on the radio.

It always comes back to the reaper, doesn't it?

Once, my thoughts of Mor and my memories of Will could almost be separated. Once, I could make lists of my emotions, and identify what triggered me, and try to be happy even when I was not. But today, my feelings are jumbled up and unknowable and on fire.

I want to stay inside all day. I can barely get out of bed.

But I have things I need to do. Letterman jackets I need to wear. Graves I need to take flowers to.

Today is October 29 - the 5 month anniversary of Will's death.

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Getting up and ready is a challenging task, but before I know it, I'm sitting in my car outside The Eternal Garden. I stopped by the florist on south Main Street to get a bouquet of lilacs, and the cashier - Violet from Drama Club - gave me a slightly fake sympathetic look as she took in my black and red jacket.

Sympathy. As if that ever did anything for me. If only my town knew what I've seen.

Slowly, I get out of the car, and make my way to Will's grave. It's all the way at the back, tucked in against the fading brick wall. Autumnal leaves are scattered across the plot, along with all the land around it, as Ashdown's oaks and maples slowly die in the overcast, chilly weather.

It might've been pretty, if it weren't for the occasion. I know Thanksgiving is coming soon, and after that, Christmas. Girls will be planning secret Santas and dressing up in boots and scarves as boys ambush each other with snowballs outside of the school. Groups of friends will flock to ski resorts to hit the slopes, before coming home to drink hot cocoa and decorate the Christmas tree.

Who knows if I'll ever see a Christmas tree again. Who knows how much longer I'll live. Somehow, I wish I could go back to last Christmas and tell Will and I to enjoy it while we can.

Because soon, we'd both be trading plastic stars for avenging angels.

Trying hard not to think about the past - or the future - I wipe the inevitable tears from my eyes as I lay down my flowers. But there's no use. There never is. It isn't long before I'm sobbing.

Images of statues and spires, ancient languages and glittering wine mesh with my usual memories.

I'm distracted when a rustling noise emits from the nearest sugar maple. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and my heart thumps as I watch the tree for any more signs of life.