The
sun had already dried up the puddles and mud on the concrete walkway
between the graves. Tiny droplets of water hung on the tips of
leaves, marvelously reflecting the light, gloating at having defeated
gravity.
Ghostlike,
the boy drifted between the headstones, his hair and his clothes
heavy from the rain. He passed the hedges and graves of the unknown,
and he passed the huts and houses, and in his slumber, he took no
notice of the unfamiliar figure resting on the low
wall.
Distractedly, he headed straight for the grave that he had come for. When he reached it, he stood motionless, and prepared himself for what was to come.
Distractedly, he headed straight for the grave that he had come for. When he reached it, he stood motionless, and prepared himself for what was to come.
Over
the weeks, he had accustomed himself to the hatred and anger that
filled him whenever he stood at the grave. He was used to the closing
of his throat and the trembling of his hands. He was used to the semi
loss of consciousness. He was even used to the desire to throw
something, anything, and he was used to resisting that urge. However,
he noted, being accustomed to something makes it no less unpleasant
than before.
Time
was always a matter of irrelevance at the graveyard. He was not sure
as to why he kept visiting: perhaps he was looking for something,
some clue as to why he was going through this, why this
had to happen to him, specifically. He was looking for
answers, or something like that. And of course, he was always
disappointed.
The
sun had dissolved into an endless gleam of pink and yellow on the
horizon, coating the winding paths and hedges and headstones with an
artistic touch. His eyes flickered to the silhouette on the wall. He
could see in the glow of dusk, the silhouette of a young girl.
She
wore a dazed expression, one that he could not quite identify. In
fact, the expression looked so artificial, she could have been
wearing a mask. The only proof of her eyes being real was the
continuous stream of tears flowing down her cheeks.
The
boy glanced at his watch and made a quick calculation. He had been
here nearly two hours and she had not moved once. Her hair fluttered
softly in the wind, but her eyes were wide and unblinking.
Unsure
of what he was doing, or what he was going to do, he began to walk
towards her.
“Hey.”
The
word seemed trivial. It didn't sound the way he had intended it to.
It took her a moment to acknowledge his presence, and when she
noticed it, she did not move.
“Hi,” was the response. She didn't turn her head. And the tears did not stop.
“Hi,” was the response. She didn't turn her head. And the tears did not stop.
“Mind
if I sit?” Nothing. He took this to mean no, she didn't mind.
It was
not awkward or uncomfortable. The silence, he felt, had a deeper
meaning. He sat there for a little while next to this girl, this
strange girl with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands. There was
something peculiar about her. He guessed she must have been
seventeen, eighteen years old, not much younger than himself, yet
there was something about her that seemed almost childlike, a quality
he would have expected in a toddler.
The
look was in her eyes. She stared at the world in endless fascination,
they were wide with wonder, as if they could not drink in all the
beauty that surrounded them.
Suddenly,
they moved and rested on him.
“Who
are you here for?”
He took a breath and answered the question he would usually have dreaded answering.
He took a breath and answered the question he would usually have dreaded answering.
“My
mum.”
As
always, when he said those words, his eyes traveled and focused on
the floor. His throat closed, his ears began to pound and his heart
stopped. She studied him intensely for a moment, then–
“I'm
sorry.”
He
was taken aback. Not by the words themselves. No – he had heard
them too many times over the last few weeks. So many times, in fact,
that they were devoid of any meaning. It was more the sincerity with
which she said them.
“I mean, you must have had enough of that.”
“You have no idea.”
“What I mean is, I'm sorry everyone thinks they can help you. I'm sorry that there is not a person in the world who understands what you're going through, and I'm sorry that everyone thinks they do. They say they do, and some people even have been there, but nobody realises that it's different. It's different because this time it's about you and not them. It really gets to you, doesn't it?”
“Everyone keeps telling me it's not so bad, she's still here, she's watching over us. I don't feel it. All I feel is empty. She's just not here. Do they really think they know what she meant to me?”
“They think they do. But if they were to stop for a second to think about it, they would realise that that's ridiculous. They couldn't possibly relate to how you feel because everyone feels something different, see? I guess the fact that nobody can ever understand is the only part that everyone feels when they go through something like this.”
“I guess you've had some time to think about this.”
“Too much time.”
They looked at each other for a long time. Her tears never stopped, but her eyes never wavered from the expression of complete fascination.
“Does it get better?”
“No,” she said abruptly, and after some consideration, “it gets different. It simply won't hit you as often. But when it does, it'll be just as bad as, or even worse than before. As time goes by, you'll “move on”. I think when people say that, they mean you'll be numb. You'll learn how to die a little, instead of let it hurt you. But I guess that will let you have little moments where you can think about her and you'll be glad you have all those memories to share. But when it does hit you, it might hit you even harder than at first.”
He had heard some of that before, about becoming numb instead of letting it hurt you. It was still impossible to imagine. The way she described it made it believable, at the least.
“How long did it take you to – How did you get – Are you used to – ” As he asked her about her own experience, he suddenly noticed that he did not even know what she'd been through, and as soon as she realised what he was about to ask her she jumped off the wall. She didn't look at all reluctant to answer him, but she looked at him calmly, the tears now drying on her cheeks, and said, “the experiences of others are only helpful so long as they give you guidance for the future. I can't be helped anymore, and I've told you everything I can about what I learnt from the unfortunate events of my life. I could tell you what happened to me, but it really wouldn't help you at all.” She smiled at him for a while, and then she slowly made her way back along the path, trudging along, leaving her sadness behind her.
In the moonlight of his bedroom, he thought about the day and the girl on the wall, and everything she had told him. In a way, he was glad that she didn't tell him what was wrong. It would only have given him one more worry, and would have made him want to yell at the world in its inequalities and misfortunes. She had taught him an important lesson: there were always people out there who did understand that they didn't understand. And although this made him feel less like he was different from everyone who had lost someone, it also made him feel terribly, agonizingly alone.
“I mean, you must have had enough of that.”
“You have no idea.”
“What I mean is, I'm sorry everyone thinks they can help you. I'm sorry that there is not a person in the world who understands what you're going through, and I'm sorry that everyone thinks they do. They say they do, and some people even have been there, but nobody realises that it's different. It's different because this time it's about you and not them. It really gets to you, doesn't it?”
“Everyone keeps telling me it's not so bad, she's still here, she's watching over us. I don't feel it. All I feel is empty. She's just not here. Do they really think they know what she meant to me?”
“They think they do. But if they were to stop for a second to think about it, they would realise that that's ridiculous. They couldn't possibly relate to how you feel because everyone feels something different, see? I guess the fact that nobody can ever understand is the only part that everyone feels when they go through something like this.”
“I guess you've had some time to think about this.”
“Too much time.”
They looked at each other for a long time. Her tears never stopped, but her eyes never wavered from the expression of complete fascination.
“Does it get better?”
“No,” she said abruptly, and after some consideration, “it gets different. It simply won't hit you as often. But when it does, it'll be just as bad as, or even worse than before. As time goes by, you'll “move on”. I think when people say that, they mean you'll be numb. You'll learn how to die a little, instead of let it hurt you. But I guess that will let you have little moments where you can think about her and you'll be glad you have all those memories to share. But when it does hit you, it might hit you even harder than at first.”
He had heard some of that before, about becoming numb instead of letting it hurt you. It was still impossible to imagine. The way she described it made it believable, at the least.
“How long did it take you to – How did you get – Are you used to – ” As he asked her about her own experience, he suddenly noticed that he did not even know what she'd been through, and as soon as she realised what he was about to ask her she jumped off the wall. She didn't look at all reluctant to answer him, but she looked at him calmly, the tears now drying on her cheeks, and said, “the experiences of others are only helpful so long as they give you guidance for the future. I can't be helped anymore, and I've told you everything I can about what I learnt from the unfortunate events of my life. I could tell you what happened to me, but it really wouldn't help you at all.” She smiled at him for a while, and then she slowly made her way back along the path, trudging along, leaving her sadness behind her.
In the moonlight of his bedroom, he thought about the day and the girl on the wall, and everything she had told him. In a way, he was glad that she didn't tell him what was wrong. It would only have given him one more worry, and would have made him want to yell at the world in its inequalities and misfortunes. She had taught him an important lesson: there were always people out there who did understand that they didn't understand. And although this made him feel less like he was different from everyone who had lost someone, it also made him feel terribly, agonizingly alone.