Losing you

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y

C H A P T E R         T W E N T Y

This was the second time he'd visited her grave in all the months she'd been gone. The first, months ago with Jason when they'd asked the devil for a free pass to Hell by getting drunk over graves. Sure, it had fluked a clue... but it didn't change that it had been a nightmare in the moment.

Cemeteries were rundown and avoided for a reason. They were all haunted; all creepy. Nothing good ever came from visiting a cemetery.

Then again, it may have been just him who thought it. He'd been a "moody bastard" lately—Jason's words. He was probably right too.

But Dylan had reason.

He was out to find the last suicide letter. How many had he read already; how many reasons had there been? On both accounts he had no idea. It felt like he'd aged a lifetime since the start though.

The last letter. It was all... coming to an end.

In a cemetery, at her grave.

How fucking fitting?

Yet that was her point, wasn't it? Why she'd planted the last letter at her grave?

It was. Damn, her sense of humour was twisted. That's what he'd loved about her though. Now, though, in this situation, he absolutely hated it.

He wouldn't even be exaggerating if he said he felt like he was dying.

And wasn't that ironic too? She was dead. He felt like he was.

Healthy relationship 101—that's what they'd become. Or, rather, the opposite of it.

Yet, as he stood at the gate of the cemetery, he realised he wouldn't change a thing. Sure, the end to their story was all kinds of fucked up. The beginning though? It was memories he'd never forget; ones he'd always be grateful for.

That said, it didn't change that he was about to walk through a cemetery to find a suicide letter.

As the guard at the gate eyed him suspiciously, where he was watering some of the plants while he kept sentry, Dylan knew he had to get moving. Back to his car wasn't an option. The only way was forward.

Fuck.

He'd thought it couldn't get any worse. He lied to himself because this went beyond anything he'd done before.

Locking his car behind him, he pocketed his keys. Then he walked to the creaky gate, worthy of a cameo in a ghost tour. It was half open, but he pushed it a little more so he could slip past. The cobbled footpath was uneven under his feet, random pot holes in the ground.

Sliding his sunglasses off the top of his head and over his eyes to shield the light, he avoided the holes in the ground. The directory was on a sign beside him, so he went over to look. Organised by year of death, it wasn't hard to find her section. 5A—right at the other end of the church where the funerals often were held.

That was about as far as he could get from the picture. Other information he remembered from when his mum used to being him to see his grandfather. So, essentially, he was on a wild chase until he happened to be lucky enough to find himself in the right spot.