only human ― s.r.

4.0

[Brown]: "The absent are never without fault, nor the present without excuse — Benjamin Franklin."

An old myth says that suicide rates increase during the holidays because some people feel even lonelier when others are around. But while there are some who might commit suicide during the holidays — and we should all be aware of that — it is nothing but a misguided myth.

Skylar's flight to New York landed at 8:30 on a Saturday. The first weekend off in four weeks. Two days after Thanksgiving. Holidays. It's a detail she hardly shared about that day. Ten years ago, when her mother killed herself, it had been Thanksgiving. And ever since then, she's hated every single holiday.

It was cold outside. The skyline looked even prettier now that she couldn't see it every day. Street musicians waved at her as she walked the street from her hotel — she wasn't quite ready to visit her childhood home, the place where it had all happened.

The cemetery wasn't far. Skylar hugged the black coat tighter around her body. She was completely dressed in the dark color, dark as she felt and dark as the clouds lingering in the sky. The all-around mood left no room for happiness. As if the universe knew what today was. That's not very comforting.

It wasn't a happy day. There is no happiness in death. No happiness in losing someone. No happiness in the eternal grief of a loved one.

Skylar had worshipped her mother. On happy days, she always had to remind herself that her mother would've wanted her to be happy, and so she had to be for her sake, at least.

Ten years. Ten years! And there was no sign of her father. An anniversary as big as this one should've been dealt with as a family. It angered her, outraged her, even, and made the pain even worse.

Skylar had bought a batch of lilies. Her mother's favorite type of flower. But when she found Irene's grave, perfectly maintained thanks to her monthly payments, there was already a batch sitting on the ground. A perfect, giant batch of white lilies, tied with a red ribbon — Irene's favorite color — and set into a golden vase. She didn't know where it was from, but it looked expensive.

"What the—" she didn't finish the sentence.

Skylar searched for a card inside the batch. This must've been a gift, maybe from an estranged aunt or something. She didn't want to suspect the worse. For once in her life, she wanted to go into this like a normal human being, not an FBI profiler.

She used to get lilies on her mother's anniversary, always sent to the New York Field Office. They all had cards, quotes from famous authors. Skylar had never questioned it until now. She had always believed someone from her family was only trying to be nice, trying to give something back, but this was a whole new level of strange. And now as a profiler, she felt the need to solve this. This could mean anything.