Sinner's Place {h.s}

twenty-nine.

I looked up from my lap, pulling my jacket closed around my body as the cold air started to seep through the car. I wish he would have left the car running, but maybe this was another way of punishing me for being an utter cunt last night.

He wanted me to freeze to death.

Harry kneeled at the grave, bowing his head. My brows pinched as I watched him take out a rosary and place it onto his dad's headstone after gently placing a kiss to it. He put the flowers right against the grave, and I saw him mutter a few words, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.

I thought he would get up and come back, but instead he fell back onto his ass and placed his face into his hands. I couldn't just sit and watch him, I felt like I needed to do something--as if I hadn't already made things worse.

Getting out of the car, I walked towards him. The bitter air blew my hair to the side, and I could feel my nose already starting to grow red. The closer I got to him, I could hear him mumbling some words to his dad. I for sure had thought he had been crying.

"Hey," I said with a hoarse voice as I stood over him. He flinched slightly, moving his hands from his face as he looked up at me with red eyes. I gulped thickly, taking a step back from him.

Okay, maybe he was crying just a bit.

"I told you to wait in the car," His voice had a hint of annoyance to it.

"It was cold in the car..." I whispered out softly as I kneeled down beside him, staring at his dad's grave ahead of me.

Paul Styles, it read. Born 1956, deceased 2016.

What a young age to die at.

There was something haunting about sitting in front of a grave, knowing that the person laying beneath used to be full of life. Breathing, eating, loving and living--they had a story to tell, and now you would never get to hear that story.

I suppose what was most disturbing was knowing that they were in such a dark place in their life that they had killed themselves. It's sad to think about. From what Harry had told me, the church had led him to do it, but I suppose I had wondered why he would feel so much guilt about his life that he would kill himself.

Even growing up in a church, if I was told to kill myself for God to save my soul-- I would choose to live life a million times over.

"He was a good guy," Harry rasped out as his knuckle swept up the fallen tears under his eye. He cleared his throat, shifting his body where he sat as he placed a hand onto his father's headstone, "He didn't deserve what happened to him--what he went through."

His voice was heavy, carrying the weight of guilt as he talked about his father. Coarse, like it hurt to even talk about. It was like taking a metal scrubbing pad to your throat and swallowing it down to spite your feelings. I could tell he wasn't well. I wouldn't be either.

I mean, I'm not. I'm not well to begin with.

I bit my lip. I didn't want to say anything, and really, I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to act like I knew what he was going through. His dad died, his mom--well, he never really specified about his mother. Looking to the other headstones that were next to us, I couldn't seem to find a woman's name on them. They were all men.

Was he mom alive? Dead? Buried somewhere else?

"He used to work as a fisherman, goin' to the docks every day and he loved that job," Harry continued, bringing me back to reality, "Came home smellin' like fuckin' shit, though." He chuckled to himself, sniffling through the laughter.