Tombstone Tourist

It was a beautiful Wednesday morning and the new grave had been there for a week now. The boy's family had come to visit, but only once. They had said it would be the lat time for a long while, for they could not stand the pain of the fact that their son had passed before them. I couldn't say I blamed them. It had to be absolutely devastating. Parents are supposed to die before their kids, not the other way around. That shouldn't be how it happens, but it had and now they needed to escape from all the memories and hurt that came along with their only son's passing.

I had remained true to my routine, still visiting the cemetery every day except Monday when I had to go into work. It wasn't like I needed to. I have plenty of money I had not wanted to inherit for a very long time, but if I didn't have a job, I would probably completely lose it. Sometimes I feel like I have already completely lost it. Anyways, I work at an animal shelter on Mondays. It pays practically nothing, but it keeps me sane. It also ties back into that “making a change” thing I'm always thinking about. It's small, yeah, but at least it's a start.

Since I had the day entirely to myself, I did as it feels like I always have. I walked the two blocks to the cemetery, said hi to Mrs. Lesman and her old dog before I rounded the corner and entered the gates, and then took my place leaning up against my mom's stone.

I had brought a notebook today, thinking of doing some writing or maybe sketching. It isn't like I thought I was any good of either of those things, but it helped me focus my energy on something. I leaned back on the monument and gazed up at the sky through the leaves of the trees that had grown big from behind where I sat. I sighed. It was not a sigh of sadness, but more of loneliness. I wished for the thousandth time that I would find someone to love, but how could I? I don't leave my house or the cemetery often, and when I do it's to go shopping or to work. My odds weren't good.

I opened up the pad of paper and lightly pressed the tip of the pencil to the blank page. Letting go of all thoughts, I let my brain guide my hand haphazardly, almost as if I was not in control at all. Really, didn't know what would materialize on the paper; I just hoped not to be dissatisfied by it as I so often was when I drew anything. After a considerable amount of time, I finally placed the pencil down in the grass and really took in the art. I gasped. I had unknowingly drawn the boy who took his own life, completely from memory, after only seeing him once. Compared to my usual disfigured scribbles, this was a masterpiece. How this had happened, your guess is as good as mine.

I ran a hand through my hair and shook my head and disbelief.

“How the hell did I do this?” I whispered.

What? It was fitting.

“Y-you didn't. Not exactly.”

I snapped my head in the direction of the voice, previously sure that I was alone here. My assumptions were proven wrong though, when I faced a boy, slightly younger than me. He had a few tattoos it seemed, a nose ring, fiery orange hair, and, wait. holy fuck. It can't be. It isn't possible. There is no way that this boy was who I thought he was. In front of me, shyly bowing his head and pushing his hair out of his eyes repeatedly was a face I had seen only once but would not soon forget. I had seen him before, yes, lying in a coffin, a mark from a rope around his neck. I had seen him before. Dead.