toska - sapnotfound

i

nature lets out a roar of thunder, lightning splitting the black sky in half. heavy raindrops fall from above, barely even soaking into the already wet grass. on nights like these, the majority of people would frown and close their blinds. even teenagers and clubbers would refrain from going outside, despite it being friday.

the few people that are unlucky enough to have been caught in the raging thunderstorm hurry to safety under shielding umbrellas. no one wants to stay out there, get their clothes wet and cold and catch pneumonia as a bonus.

but alone in the windy night walks a timid man, sneakers muddy and ruined. he's the only one who isn't at all fazed by mother nature's wild rage. he doesn't want to go home, huddle up under a warm blanket with a cup of hot chocolate. his mind is set elsewhere.

despite his toes being ice cold and damp from the leaking rainwater, he walks on. he passes through the empty park, cutting across a usually green, grassy field that's now turned brown instead, as a direct result of the horrid weather.

not far from where he is lies the town cemetery. it normally doesn't get many visitors, especially not at this time of day. if you were out walking your dog in that park, and you saw the poorly dressed man tread through dark puddles and rough terrain, you'd never think he was headed to the cemetery. but as he gets closer and closer to the old rusted gates, you'd begin to understand.

for a man to travel on foot to the place of the dead in such awful conditions, something truly terrible must've happened to him.

his stiff fingers open the cemetery gates, loud creaking and whining noises filling the air as they're pushed forward. inside the perimeter - surrounded by a medieval stone wall - the atmosphere is different. it makes you shiver, but not because of the cold. it's as if the howling of the wind and the roaring of thunder doesn't quite reach into the area. like a lid has been placed on it, an aura of sorts.

maybe it's god's aura, the man thinks. god's safety sheet, a sort of reassurance that he's watching over the dead during all hours of the day.

he knows the route all too well at this point; past the bins, continue straight ahead on the gravel path, make a left turn after the mausoleum, a few more steps forward. and there, if you look to the right, is a naturally shaped gravestone, custom made from polished granite.

it stands among rows of similar pieces of rock, hidden in the mass. but despite its many similarities to the other graves, one simply couldn't miss it if they happened to walk past. what sets that specific piece apart, is the many flowers planted in front of it, around it, growing happily without a care in the world, like the dirt they live off of isn't tainted by death's presence.

even if all of those flowers didn't exist as indicators, the man could spot the resting place from far away.

his throat closes up as he kneels down in the soaking grass. he gazes upon the rock that has become his second home at this point, his best friend, as messed up as it seems. it's squeaky clean even in this weather, surface smooth and void of imperfections. in sunlight it would shine, unlike many of the older gravestones in the cemetery.

the pretty flowers surrounding it are suffering in the harsh rain; some have lost their petals, or been bent in the wind. they're not as colorful as they would usually be, not as lively and vibrant. the man wishes the storm could go away, so the pretty things can be left in peace. they're almost as pretty as him.

but what is most remarkable about the shaped granite, or perhaps the most heartbreaking, is the text on its otherwise blank surface. inscribed in gold, it spells:

george davidson

nov 1, 1996 - oct 26, 2020

definitely one of the newer additions to the cemetery grounds. the gravestone might not be older than a few weeks.

the man rubs his eyes, as if tears are already being shed. maybe it's just the harsh wind that have made them watery.

he takes a few minutes to collect himself in silence. the raindrops aren't falling as fast now, the lightning not echoing as loudly between the stone structures. he's thankful for mother nature's consideration, that she's letting him mourn in peace.

his gaze falls on the golden letters, and he reads them over and over again until they don't even look like words anymore. until the name seems strange, unfamiliar. but he knows that he will never forget it, no matter how many years - or even lifetimes - pass. he couldn't, for it is ingrained in his mind, and in his heart and soul too, for that matter. nothing could take its place.

"hi george, it's... nick."

his voice is hoarse, weak. speaking has only been a bother lately.

"i'm sorry i couldn't bring flowers today, it's really late and the flower shop was closed."

he looks at the drenched lillies with a lump in his throat. the tulips are withering, the forget-me-nots struggling to stay up. he curses once under his breath.

"i'm so sorry, i-i always bring flowers, i know.."

he sniffles, reaching out with his hand to touch something that isn't there.

"i swear i'll make it up to you, okay? i'll bring you roses or poppies tomorrow, i know you love them a lot."

"other than that, uhm, nothing new has been happening. it's just the same old.. work is boring. i sleep too much... yeah."

"i-i hate coming home to an empty house every day. when i'm at work i always daydream, and- once my shift ends, i get so excited, because it feels like everything will be the same," he mumbles,

"it's like.. i still have that little sliver of hope when i drive home, that hope that when i unlock the front door you'll be there, you'll come walking out of the kitchen with your apron on, the blue one that you loved so much... and the whole house will smell of newly cooked dinner, and you'll give me a kiss, and ask how work has been."

"but- but it's never like that, a-and.. i don't know how much longer my hope will last."

a single tear trickles down his cold, red cheek. it hurts too much.

"i-i'm sorry.. i have to leave, it's- i'm gonna freeze to death out here."

"i'll be back tomorrow as usual, i promise."

a small, pained smile creeps up on his lips at just the thought of caring for george later, removing the withered flowers and replacing them with new, lively ones. maybe buying him a little gift, a teddy bear or something. it's the one thing that still brings him joy in life, makes him feel like he has a purpose.

after the usual goodbyes, before he leaves to return home, he leans forward, kissing the inanimate gravestone like he would kiss his lover's lips.