The Compass and the Quill [Under Revision]

20.

Parker

"Happy Birthday, Quilla."

I knelt and placed the single rose on her grave next to two bouquets. For a brief moment, I stayed motionless, waiting for the wave of crushing grief to pass. "I had wanted to get you something today," I said when I had recovered enough. "Maybe something fattening. No, no, I'm kidding - I probably would've got you something pretty. If you were alive, you'd still be hating me, but I'd try my best to get back into your good books. I bet you hate me even now."

I choked back a sob. "You probably know what's going on - the celebrations, and the talk, and everything - I hope you know that I'm not part of them. I miss you, Quilla. I miss you every day. I am so sorry for doing this to you - all of this is my fault."

"Everyone thinks that I'm weird for visiting you here - but then again, they thought I was weird for talking to you in the first place. They don't look me in the eye anymore - I kind of understand what you went through everyday. But I don't care what they think. I know the truth about you, they don't. Which is another thing I needed help with. How do I prove your innocence, Quilla? I am sick and tired of the ghastly attitude towards you. It isn't fair. But I don't know how to clear things up without sounding like a loon. Give me some sign, Quilla. Help me, please."

All I received in answer was silence. I stared morosely at her tombstone. There was nothing on there but her name, and the duration of her life, and graffiti - this town was frigging weird. Somebody clearly had the gall to come to a cemetery and deface the grave of the town's most notorious "murderer". It was a bunch of mean words, along with vigilante-like words saying how truth and justice always win. It was ironic - they both had lost miserably. An innocent girl, caught in a web most were unaware of, had died misunderstood and detested, leaving behind way too few people willing to clear her name.

My attention was suddenly drawn to the bouquets. There was one dominated by white carnations, hydrangeas and a single sunflower - it was clearly from Quilla's parents. But there was another one there, a bunch of zinnias in a variety of colors. I had done some research so I could choose what flowers to visit Quilla with, and as far as that went, zinnias symbolized friendship.

"Is this some kind of bad joke?" I mumbled, examining the bouquet. As far as I knew, I was the only one who had half a right to call myself her friend. And these flowers were definitely not from me. Who were they from, then?

"Aha!" There was a card on the bouquet. Eagerly, I opened it, only to find no name and a cryptic message:

Greatly wronged, and gone too soon.

"This has got to be a joke," I muttered.

"What is?"

I jumped a mile in the air. Turning around, I scowled at the person standing behind me. "Do you have to sneak up on me like that?" I snapped.

Grim eyed me disdainfully. "How stupid can you actually get?" he snapped back at me. "Because your graph is going pretty damn high."

"Looks like you know a lot about stupidity. Like you have first-hand experience."

"Don't be too brave, boy. Remember whom you're talking to."

"I remember all too well."

We glared at each other, our fists clenched. Quilla's death had taken away our reason to be civil to each other. It was surprising to see Grim this upset about someone's death, especially if one considered his occupation, which I resented him immensely for. Our grief was as alike as it was different - we both felt immense guilt, we both missed her terribly, and, as one heated conversation a few nights back had revealed, we both wanted to change everybody's opinion about her. But Grim could see her if and when he wanted to, and he had seen her healthy, unlike me, who would never see her again and was left with the image of a malnourished, sleep-deprived girl. But still, we never bonded over her death - if anything, we sought each other out only to fight so we could vent our emotions.