(How it would you feel to be in the shoes of someone facing the grave of a loved one?)
Graveyards are quiet places. Peaceful, solemn, and beautiful. After all, none of their denizens are going to make a noise. Some people enjoy wandering through these places, looking at the names on the gravestones, and letting their minds travel. But none think about the actual people. Humans with friends and families, love and hate, fear and joy. If they did, the sorrow would come, whether a rushing tide or a cold, trickling stream and drown their life and vitality.
This graveyard was not beautiful, nor peaceful. Its grey, uniform gravestones carried painful memories with them. Memories of war and loss. In the middle was a man. A hero. The sunlight of the day hurt his eyes, and the blue skies felt jarring as if the world was trying to cheer him up but didn't quite know how. The hero felt that if he was mourning, then the sky should too. It should be pouring with rain, not shining like it was a happy sunny day at a cheery camp. He had thought that the world would have at least granted him weather to match his mood. Maybe if it rained hard enough then he would be able to literally drown in his sorrows.
He smirked at this, then immediately felt guilty. How dare he smile when so many people no longer could? When so many were dead?
And just like that, the tears started again. Not gentle tears slowly rolling down his face, but full on, lip trembling, noisy crying. The hero gritted his teeth through his pain. He thought he was over this part. Why did he still burst into tears at the slightest provocation? But try as he might, even when his mind spat and growled and clawed at the grey-blue mass of depression, he could not stop. He never could. Whenever he cried, it felt like he was emptying an entire lake of misery, only for it to start filling up again as soon as he had finished. Maybe he was doomed to mope around forever.
After all, it wasn't like these breakdowns only happened in the graveyard; he hadn't even been able to bring himself to go there until that day. If it had only been there, in that place, then he would have happily avoided it. But instead, he found tears gushing down his face every time he saw something that reminded him of...of...The hero took a deep breath. He had to say the guy's name sometime. And so, he whispered a name into the bright graveyard with the grey stones. "Michael." He choked out, trying to cover up his tears. He cried every time he saw something that reminded him of Michael.
That was why he had come to the graveyard. To help him move on, he thought he should visit Michael's grave. Hopefully he could face it for good and move on from that horrifying accident. But now that he was here, he only felt more miserable. He glanced towards the cliff edge. This graveyard was built on a cliff. It only occurred to him now how stupid that was. After all, not everyone could deal with the grief. Not everyone could stay away from the edge. Sometimes it would be oh so easy to step into blissful nothingness...
The hero growled under his breath, swallowing some of the salty tears that still insisted on flowing down his face, even after the noise had subsided. Why was he even thinking about that? Michael wouldn't have wanted him to think about that. But then again, Michael was dead and so no longer had an input in the hero's choices. Yet on the other hand, if there was an afterlife, Michael wouldn't be happy to find him there so soon. However, there was nothing to say there was, and- Great. Now he was arguing with himself. Maybe he was losing his mind. At least, if the giggling madmen in the asylum were anything to go by, he would have no worries. Did he really want it though? To lose his mind to make the tears go away? No-one would miss him. Well, probably. He was absolutely certain that no-one had ever cared about him apart from Michael. Almost. Yes, he was almost absolutely certain that no-one had ever cared about him apart from Michael.
He was sure that, if he did have the choice, he would throw his sanity away. If it weren't for that damned almost. Almost was what kept him hanging on. Almost certain. Almost positive. Almost absolutely sure. Because if he was wrong, if the almost, the fraction of a chance, was true, then he would be hurting them far more than he could ever imagine.
No. That was wrong. He could imagine that kind of pain. He had experienced it. The pain of watching someone you care about slowly slip away, with nothing you can do to fight the impending horrors of those things that humanity cannot do anything against. The knowledge that, no matter how hard you tried, however much you screamed and bit and punched, you were powerless.
The graveyard brought the memories back like a punch in the gut, and it made him contemplate things that he liked to pretend had never even crossed his mind before. It was as if there was some kind of device in the graveyard that amplified a person's grief to catastrophic levels. Maybe there actually was. He decided he that he should probably start searching, although he refused to admit, to both him and the graveyard at large, that it was just a way to take his mind off the things that he'd rather not think about. Instead, he told himself that he was helping the few people that came to the graveyard. It could be dangerous. After all, he was a hero. That was what he did. Save people. So, he searched the graveyard, ignoring the voice in the back of his head reminding him of the person he didn't save, instead idly wondering which of his enemies was most likely to have planted such a device. No-one likes to be reminded of a failure, after all. Especially not one that painful. He pored over the graveyard (something which the sky still wasn't doing! He didn't know why it bothered him so much, but it did) with careful attention to detail, yet he found nothing. He slumped down on the ground, head in his hands, in a mood somewhere between "too tired to think" and "I'm going to break down crying any minute now". The result was tearless misery, the only sound a quiet whimpering that the graves seemed to swallow up. A bit like the bodies they contain, he thought bitterly.
There was no warning before he heard the voice. No twig snapping or loose tile being stepped on or bush rustling. This person had perfected the art of stealth long ago. He knew that the smaller twigs were blown onto the path by the wind, that the neat hedgerows were impossible to hide in without making some kind of sound, exactly which of the white tiled pathways had loose sections. But if he had meant to harm him, then it would have already happened. So, he managed to stop himself from jumping when he spoke. "You know, I would make a point of how clichéd it is to go to a graveyard and mope about being sad, but I'm pretty sure you're moping too much at the moment to appreciate that level of snarky comedy genius, so I won't."
He didn't bother to turn around. He knew who the guy was; he had fought alongside him in the war. And he still hadn't changed much, even after all that. He was too sad (or mopey as he would have called it) to be jealous, though. The hero lifted his head to watch a weak wind blow the young tree that sat next to the graveyard. New life, surrounded by death. "Why are you here?"
Now the voice sounded confused. "We're friends, right? I was worried. You've been here since last night. No-one should be here for sixteen hours, forty-four minutes and counting."
He gave a weak smile, even though he knew he couldn't see it. "You worked all that out?"
"On the way here."
"Why?"
"So, I could give you a concerned yet serious and strict friend lecture."
This time he laughed. What he had said hadn't been all that funny, and his reaction surprised both of them. From the noise behind him, it sounded as if the guy had leaped back several steps. He stood up and turned around. "Alright. I'll come back with you."
He grinned and stepped forward to drape an arm around his shoulder. As he was quite short compared to him, he had to stretch a bit. "Good." he hesitated slightly. "Look, I know Michael meant a lot to you, but you need to remember that other people care too. Just ask for support and we'll give it."
He smiled back. His jaw muscles hurt from disuse; it was not normal for his mouth to make that shape these days. "Thanks. I'll keep those things in mind." The hero thought of those first words he had said to him that day. "Hey, you sure snarky is a word?"
"Uh-huh. It means "to make snide and sharply critical comments: informal". Not sure I used it correctly though."
Regardless of the thought of him flinging himself off the cliff was an option, he knew deep down it wasn't over yet. It would be a painful period, but time will slowly heal all wounds. As they walked off, he couldn't help but think how glad he was that he'd remembered the almost in that sentence.
(DISCLAIMER: Do not post my work anywhere else without my permission. Message me about spreading my work.)
