The eeriness of the cemetery sends chills down my spine. There is not a single soul in sight except for Miles and me, other than the one gravedigger we passed two minutes ago. It isn't that surprising, seeing as the sun hasn't even risen yet. In fact, the few workers must have been confused when they saw us here, at this time in the morning.
I hold the bouquet closer to my tightened chest with one of my shaking hands, the other entangled with Miles' fingers. We tread lightly over the soft soils that seem to have been revealed after the snow crusts were shovelled and piled to the outer areas of the graveyard.
The tiny hairs at the back of my neck stand as we pass by rows of tombstones; some are crooked and crumbling while others seem like they were only recently placed. Most of them are made out of white marble. Polished crosses and statues of angels are scattered all over the cemetery, as well as weeping willows and dry yew trees.
From what I remember, Mom and Dad have their own little section of the cemetery. Their graves are surrounded by plenty of plants and a black iron fence. I scan the names engraved on the headstones as we move by them and ignore my racing heartbeat that somehow gets faster with every step I take.
Eventually, we reach the gate. My throat goes dry and my breathing becomes heavy. Miles must take notice of this because he gives my hand an encouraging squeeze. I shoot him a small, grateful smile before taking a deep breath and open the gate door.
When I was fifteen, I wouldn't have imagined I'd be visiting my parents' grave so soon before they were taken away from me. Everything I'd ever known, gone. Destroyed and over with like it didn't even happen. My perfect world turned into a crippling mess.
This is my reality. This is my life.
My feet stop moving, bringing Miles to a halt with me in front of two graves. My eyes rest upon my parent's names, dropping to the shrivelled bouquet of white tulips Lydia and Paul must have left the last time they visited, and then I let myself fall to my knees.
KYAN BROOKS
April 27, 1975 - September 14, 2016
Beloved father, husband, side chick, brother, & friend
EMERY GRACE BROOKS
July 4, 1975 - September 14, 2016
Beloved mother, wife, best boyfriend, sister, & friend
Memories play in my head like a movie. The beating of my heart quickens, a lump forming in my throat as I trace the outlines of their names. The thin layer of dirt on the chalk-like headstones have coated my fingertips already. I repeat my actions, following the smallest loops of the letters over and over again.
This is real, my mind repeats. They're really gone.
"Hey, guys," I whisper, running my fingers down the sides of the smooth white headstones. My lips already begin to quiver. "Happy anniversary."
If they were here, today would have marked their twenty years in marriage. I lay the bouquets on the soil, replacing the old, withering ones that I found earlier.
I feel Miles' presence close behind me. I turn my head to get a glimpse of him, but he's keeping his gaze on the ground. I focus my attention back on my parents, thankful for the silence.
"I brought you f-flowers," My voice is hoarse and croaky, but I still manage a small smile. "they're blue t-tulips. Our favourite kind."
YOU ARE READING
Little Miss Artist
Teen Fiction"You're so cute," he leaves a soft kiss on my shoulder, "and beautiful," he buries his nose in my hair, planting another kiss against my neck, "and incredibly smart," he smiles against my skin, moving slightly to tilt my head, "and finally mine." A...
Chapter 44: I'm Sorry
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