Bruises

Ch.15-More Than You Know

I knew the clear, sunshiny skies wouldn’t last. I had my hands shoved deep in the pockets of my jacket as I walked along the gritty dirt path of the cemetery. It was another fifteen minutes out of my way to get there, but I wasn’t just going to not come. Not when Sam had asked me.

Victor be damned; Sam came first.

No matter the consequences.

I knew the route. I had been there once before. The air was crisp and cool, the sky grey. Not the kind that threatened snow, just overcast. The portentous kind that accented a perfectly dismal day.

The cemetery was deserted, but strangely I wasn’t scared. I mean, it was creepy as hell, but out of everything that had happened to me in my life, I just couldn’t find it in me to be frightened.

My heart stuttered in my chest when I saw him. His back was to me, and he was standing stock still before a grave. He wore jeans and a windbreaker, hands in the pockets. There was a beanie on his head. Looking at him, I could make out the kid of eight years ago.

And it struck me, quite suddenly, that I had missed his birthday. I always remembered it because it was in February, nearly a month after mine. He had been gone and I had missed it, and for some reason that made me feel like total crap.

I sidled up beside him, neither of us saying a word. He didn’t move, and I wondered if he even noticed who I was. He appeared to be in some sort of daze; unmoving, unblinking, a statue. I stared down at the headstone, the intricate letters carved in it.

Jeremy Lance Thompson.

It wasn’t as meaningful to me. I didn’t feel any sort of wave of emotion. It was just another name, another headstone, in the cemetery.

“I haven’t used that last name in forever,” he finally spoke, and hearing that deep, smooth voice was like a wonderful caress to my senses. Something inside of me clicked into place and everything was okay again.

Or, as close to things could get to being okay.

“What was he like?” I asked, deciding to keep my gaze on the headstone. I didn’t dare look up at him.

“He was a bastard,” he stated flatly. “And I’m not sorry he’s gone.”

I couldn’t help it then. I turned to face him, craning my head back to see him fully. I was given his profile, the hat pulled low on his head. I wondered how long he had been standing out in the elements.

In the silence I took him in. Took him in like I would never see him again. And a part of me was scared that maybe it was only a dream, that I would blink and he would be gone. It was fucked up. How many people could leave a girl before she became immune to the heartache? I still wasn’t sure.

One tear fell. I felt it track down my cheek, cling stubbornly to my chin, and drop. It was followed by another, and another, and then another. Before I knew it, I was suddenly feeling so overwhelmed and the reality of the past month crashed into me, leaving me breathless. I crumpled to my knees, face buried in my hands, and I began to sob.

It wasn’t the controlled kind, either.

I held nothing back. It was wrenching, body-shaking sobs, with snot and drool and messy tears; the whole deal. I hadn’t cried like this in ages. I couldn’t stop.

My father was in prison, and he left me with a dying Aunt. She died after high school, leaving me alone to face the world on my own, permanently named the daughter of a murderer. Sam, the one person I thought I could count on, left me. Twice. And the second time hurt more than I thought it would. More than I wanted it to.