Choosing to Bleed

The cemetery smells better in August than it does in December. Well, perhaps not better - that would be a matter of opinion. But warmer, brighter, yellower, with the wildflowers springing up along the fence and the vibrant grass freshly mowed and the air ripe with the scent of apple and dandelion... yes, perhaps it is better, at least for him.

He stands at the grave in quiet contemplation for a little while longer. On the other side of the fence on the far end, a man is weedwhacking in his backyard. A couple is leaving the cemetery along the narrow paved road, the man's arm around the woman's shoulders. But at the sixth gravestone in the tenth row, this young man remains, his senses full of the summer around him and the memories within him.

There are images of catastrophic basement bedrooms and ants on the sidewalk in front of the candy store; there are scents of palm-warmed metal and paint for numerous misspelled signs; there are textures of smooth lemonade pitchers and remote controls and the rough bark of the tree in the lane. And there is the sound of a grating, whining voice that was silenced far too soon.

Another, sharper voice from behind him cuts through his memories. "Still have your scar, Sockhead?"

He stiffens at the voice, then turns very slowly, keeping his emotions in check and his face stone-set. She is leaning on the fence by the entrance gate, smoking a cigarette and smirking at him. In an even voice he says, "You must be the most arrogant person in the world, showing your face here like this."

She blows a puff of smoke towards him, though of course it dissipates in the air before getting anywhere near where he stands. "You didn't answer me. I thought you only came here on Christmas. So what, did you have this urge to come talk about the scars with your dead buddy? I don't think he has any." She laughs, and the wheezing nasally sound grates his nerves to their last frayed ends.

"Of all the insolent..." He leaves the row and comes down the cemetery road to stand near the fence in front of her, his words spilling out as he strides down past the grave markers. "Are you so calloused and unfeeling as to take pleasure in mocking the dead? Are you here to spit on his grave or in my face?"

She quirks one eyebrow and flicks cigarette ash over the fence. "Both, lover-boy."

He is shaking, though his feet are rooted where he now stands. "I have a mind to strike you."

"You wouldn't. You don't hit anyone, especially girls."

"You're not a girl, nor a woman, and you're damn well not a lady. You're a beast, Marie Kanker."

"Ooh, I'm trembling!" She mocks a shiver and laughs again. "Do you honestly think you scare me? Why the hell are you back here today?"

He hates looking into her steely eyes, but he finds himself unable to look away. His hopes his own eyes are communicating the anger and contempt he feels as surely as hers are communicating her flippancy, her coldness. "Because I'm leaving tomorrow," he says. "And if Eddy were still alive, he would be too, soon enough, as you would if you were concerned with making anything of yourself."

"And you want to say good-bye. How touching." She sneers and takes a long drag on her cigarette, successfully blowing the smoke in his face this time. "Well let me tell you something, kid. The dead don't give advice and they can't say good-bye just as sure as they can't go with you. And don't say I don't know," she spits as he opens his mouth to interrupt. "You pretend that coming here makes it better, that crying at his grave and staring at your scars in the mirror makes you understand. It doesn't make you understand, it makes you bleed even more."

She stops abruptly and pushes away from the fence, her cocky grin coming back as her hair falls in her eyes. "So go on, Double D. Mope and cry and pretend he can hear you when you talk to him. It won't make him come back." She barks out her harsh laugh and crushes her cigarette against the top of the chain-link fence, tossing the smoking butt over onto the graves. "Dumb ass."

As she turns on her heel and walks away, he lets out a bolt of rage. "I'll die happily if I never see you again in my life, Marie!"

She raises her hand in acknowledgement but does not turn to look at him. "Same to you, lover-boy." Then she turns the corner and is gone.