Shadowed

XXVIII. The Gravestones

ANGELLA

The others used to visit every day. We would all go together, heads hung, shoulders shaking from crying.

Maya was the first to bail, and one by one, the rest stopped coming by. Now I'm the only one who still goes.

It's quiet and eerie in the cemetery, but I prefer it when I'm by myself. I can be alone with my grief this way. 

There are three graves in a row. All of them are empty. There's no rotting corpses under the dirt. Just cheap markers, cheap plots, with no one to visit them but me.

Rowan Shapiro.

James Caroway.

Micah Cordova.

Micah never had a last name, so when Maya was getting the stones, I gave him mine. 

Maybe he'd appreciate it. Maybe he'd hate to carry the same name as my parents or as any Hunter. I don't know. It didn't feel right to bury him under just Micah. And it's not like I could ask him about it. Not anymore.

There's a part of me, a tiny shard of optimism in the back of my head, that's glad all of this happened. That James died, and I stabbed Micah, and Rowan bled out on the floor, because who knows if I ever would have gotten free if not for them?

And when the guilt starts to overwhelm me, that's what I tell myself. I'm truly free now. I'll never have to go back. That's what they died for.

I'm not really that selfish, though. I could never be. That's why the grief still consumes me, I think. Because I know it's my fault that there are three empty graves here. I don't show it, but it's eating me alive.

I never got my knives back from when Delia and Jade first took them. I used to not be able to go anywhere without one hidden up my sleeve. It was like a sense of security. I could never truly feel safe unless I had a way to defend myself.

I don't think I'll touch one again, though. I feel so dirty whenever I have one in my hands. You're a murderer, Angella, the knives seem to sing. You've taken lives and you can take more.

They never used to do that before Micah died.

Maya offered to get me some when we first made it back to the city, but I told her no. And she didn't press, didn't even ask why. She just left me alone.

The knives are constant reminders of everything I've done. If I still carried them with me like I always used to, I don't think I'd be able to sleep at night.

Maya's gait is still uneven. I notice it every time she approaches me. It's slight, but every other footstep drags behind her when she walks.

She assures me she's fine, and I know Maya's tough enough to handle any injury, but I also know I must have really hurt her. Me and my knives. It makes me sick every time I think about it.

The knife girl, that's what all the street kids call me. The one who stabbed Maya. It's the reason no one talks to me besides Abby and Drew, and Maya when she's around. 

She's never around, though, so no one ever believes me when I tell them she's not angry at me, not anymore. 

I'm pretty sure all of these street kids owe Maya their lives. I do, too, and I've told them that. But to them, anyone who hurt Maya is automatically an enemy.

That's why I don't sleep in Welles Park anymore. I live at Wiley's, away from the venomous whispers and rusted switchblades of bitter street kids.