Mute

3;Grave

Butch Daniel Yaroslav was a trooper, as my mother described. She took me and Charlotte to see him on a lovely spring day in March. The birds were chirping and the sun was shining, but the mood was gloomy. Or at least, mine was.

Charlotte didn't speak at all on the way there, but it's like her, considering she never spoke at all. My mom handed me an old photo of her and my late father. "This is him," she smiled through tears, "This is your father."

He had short messy black hair, white face makeup and deep black eyeliner. He showcased a lopsided smirk and had his arm slung around her. He looked like a younger Drew Fuller in the Vampire Clan movie. They looked like delinquents and I wouldn't have blamed the police for thinking they were juveniles, because that's who they were.

Charlotte seemed to take an interest in my father, pointing at him and glancing back at me, as if to compare the similarities. She nodded briefly and studied him for what seemed like the longest time. I desperately latched my hand to Charlotte's and held it for the trek to Butch's grave.

My mom brought black roses, his favorites, and Charlotte and I intertwined hands, me fearing to let her go. I didn't want to be alone anymore. I couldn't take it. I already felt alone in the 16 years I'd been alive and wasn't about to let one of the few things, that held my happiness, go.

When my mom brought Charlotte to her house, I smiled my goodbye as she hopped out of the car. When she did, my mom snickered at me through the review mirror. "You should say something, you know."

"What do you mean?" I asked quizically, but I think she knew what I was hiding.

"You love her, don't you?" she smiled. I blushed red immediately and stammered a response she knew was a lie.

"If you love her, which I know you do, you need to tell her. You should get your ass out of this car, walk up to the house and tell her." she demanded and I knew she was right.

I told her I'd find time the next time I saw her. I knew it'd be soon and was in high hopes as my mom drove home. The boys, with their leather jackets and slicked back hair, were coming home from a market and from the looks of it, they seemed to have lots of weapons.

They collected knives and guns (preferably machetes, pistols and shotguns) but my mom wouldn't let me near any of them. For obvious reasons, she had the right. My father was a schizophrenic and more than likely, I was passed on the same gene.

She didn't want me going batshit crazy like any sane parent would, but all I could think about was Charlotte.

We'd spent a lot of time together through the next couple weeks. Since she never talked, I did all the talking for us and I mean, besides the slight awkward silences from time to time, it was quite enjoyable.

Though, there was a time where things started to fall apart.