Mr. Hollingsworth.

Ch. 33 Fertilizer.

    Alexander laid down next to me on the bed. It was the sixth. We had to leave tomorrow, and I couldn't close my eyes. He'd learned so much about me, and yet he was still here. Laying next to me. Sitting up, the covers rustled. Somehow I'd managed to keep up with my work from here, but tonight I wasn't going to play catch up. Sliding on jeans instead of my pajama pants, I walked out of the house.

    I kept walking, and then I reached the graveyard. A willow tree loomed over my parents' graves, and I sat in between them, my back leaning against my dad. The jagged cement made it difficult to imagine laying on his shoulder. I always hated those songs, that said die young. Instead of growing old you should die young because it's horrible. That's a fucking stupid logic. My parents were in their thirties when they died. They had oppurtunities, catch up on grad school, raise me to be a good, country girl, smile with wrinkled faces at their hair turned grey, see their grandchildren scampering around their houses. Darting up and down the stairs.

    No, they died young. Killing all oppurtunities. Cutting ties with all the people who loved them. Before I knew it, my knees were pulled against my chest, and I was shaking with tears. Dying young is stupid, stupid as hell. Every time I hear someone say they want to die young, I get the most violent urge to just punch them. It's like they couldn't wrap their brains around the beautiful, fragility of life. They were ungrateful for the opportunity to have families, make their own. It was idiotic, beyond idiotic. If they wanted to die young, why did they cry when they heard about suicide? Too young, young people are killing themselves off too soon, yet everything I hear talks about dying young is better than growing old. Contradictory, stupid.

    In my opinion, I want us all to be able to be old eighty year olds, spoiling our grandchildren instead of fertilizer six feet under.

    Before I could think more, I felt a fuzzy blanket get draped over my shoulders, and looked up. Alexander was there, he slid under with me, and I leaned on him. "What are you thinking about?" He asked. "Life, death, usual things people think about in a graveyard." I answered, he laced his warm hand through my ice cold one. Easily, he pulled me closer, smothering us in the blankets more. He let out a small smile. "I'm grateful that you're alive Alice." He said, and I nodded. Despite the tragedy that is me, the events of my life brought up together.

    "Woe is me." I teased jokingly, Alexander smiled. As we stared up at the full moon, my eyes drooped shut.

    Little did I know the upcoming events of my life might have the potential to tear apart the seam of our relationship.