Cemetery boy

People hear things about the creature that lives in St. Andrews church-- that hides in the dark and cracks its knuckles as people sit and pray. Sometimes, people can hear it's distant voice echoing across the graveyard, always singing and always alone. What a bunch of bullshit.

I’ve never been in a church before and I’ve never wanted to either, I feel like I’m here on display—that everyone can see how weak I am. To see those pathetic tears running down my cheeks and how that somehow gives them the excuse to talk to me, as if I’m a three-year-old that’s goldfish has just died. My mother did have gold hair though; Those who aren’t very smart tend to draw those stupid sort of conclusions.

My grandmother, from my father’s side, comes up to me and gives me all this shit about how my mother loved me and how she made the entire room light up with laughter where ever she was. I roll my eyes and stop listening, she keeps on talking though—she’s not very bright you see: she’s under the illusion that her son is successful. I glance at my father, his one got this [i ]“oh I’m so sad”[ /i] face on, wanker. Doesn’t give a shit about anyone except himself. No idea what the hell Mom saw in him.

I move on, giving my grandmother the slip mid-sentence. I honestly couldn’t stand to be in this room for a second longer, bunch of downright fakers, the whole lot of them.
The graveyard is right next to the small church. It’s a sickly green and look’s empty. Plus, what was all this shit about some beast? So, I head for it.

It smells of dirt and not in a refreshing way when you’re about to planting something: it smells like rot...it smells like death. I look down only to find a freshly dug grave, for a stupid moment I wonder who it’s for before quickly walking to the back of the cemetery in the opposite direction.

I hum I gay tune and start doing a retarded skipping thing for the sake of it. No one can see me here and even if they can, screw them—I can do what the fuck I like. I take a cigarette out while I’m at it and start smoking like a chimney; I flick the ash on the grave of some guy with a retarded last name. McNutt, how fruity.

And then there was a voice from nowhere saying quite simply: “Smoking kills you.”

I jump and nearly dropped my fag, “Bitch,” I mutter before turning to the person that said it. It was a boy, I say the first thing that comes to my head, “Yeah and your nose is too big for your fucking face.”

The boy frowns and I almost grin in satisfaction, should teach him a lesson about sticking his over-sized nose into other people’s business. His got one of those really annoying hair styles too, the ones guys do in an effort to look like some sort of Zack Effron prima donna.

The boy looked at me oddly, “You wouldn’t be insulting me if you knew who I was,” he said softly.

In anyone else’s mouth the words would have seemed fake. But not here, he meant it and I have no idea what the fuck he was going on about. I roll my eyes. What a prick, who the hell did this guy think he was? I don’t even bother making a reply and continue smoking my fag. The boy takes a step closer to me

“Were you crying?”

“No!” Even I can hear the defensive tone in my voice

The guy does this annoying “Oh I’m so smart” face on when he figures I’ve been balling my eyes out for the past few hours

“So who was it then?” We were in a graveyard and I was wearing all black...there was no doubting as to what he was referring too.....He said it so lazily, as if it was nothing.

“My mother.”

“I don’t have a mother,” He said, his voice still small.

If it was meant to make me feel sorry for him it wasn’t working. I didn’t bother making an answer, instead I ask him a question that’s been bubbling in my mind.

“Who the fuck are you anyways?”

He makes a smile and holds out his hand, “Brendon Urie,” He says as if a name like that’s something to be proud of.

“So what’s your name?” He asked me, curiosity was burning behind the words like knowing this would make his day

“Sorry I don’t feel like a stalker right now, ”He glares at me, which has a surprising effect, “Ryan.” I say finally.

“Ryan what?”

“Ross.”

“Ryan Ross, god that’s a stupid name.”

“Yes Brendon Urine,” I retort shortly.

He laughs despite himself, “Why aren’t you sad? People that come here usually come to cry. You’re just putting ash all over my dad’s grave.”

I press my lips together, I don’t care about people that are in the ground, but I could still feel a slight blush crawl into my cheeks. I believe that this is my cue to leave; I don’t even bother answering his question

“So long Mr Urine, I hope never to smell you again.”

I stand up and flick my cigarette onto his dad’s grave and wander off back to the hell hole. What a weirdo. Not to mention school starts tomorrow, god it’s been a long fucking day....I turn around to take one last glance at the weirdo in the graveyard....for some reason I’m not surprised when no one’s there.