A Mosaic of Shattered Glass

1

Death does not give meaning to Life

But Life is still meaningful

And Death still comes

For no book begins just to end

But they all end anyway

They tell me Death gives meaning to Life

That Death must always be there, or Life would be empty

They think I should not be sad at the death of a friend

I need to be sad

Let me be sad

Let the raw unmolested love for my friend stab my heart a thousand times

The pain does not give Life meaning

But it is mine

Let me feel my feelings

-Death of a Friend, by Tiffany Fletcher

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   I remember her face, her laugh.

   I remember her poetry, and how she would have me read it over because she trusted my opinion.

   I remember playing board games, losing terribly every time, and how accusations of cheating followed.

   I walk through the light rain to the cemetery, to say goodbye. I was there yesterday, at the funeral, but it, it was too much. The pain and memories swelled inside and I had to leave. I had been a coward.

  But now, now I would make it right. I would gather what little strength I had, go to the headstone, and say goodbye for the very last time. To loose your best friend, your most trusted friend, that is something that cuts deeper than I thought it would.

   When she had been alive, some would mistake us for a couple, because I was a man. But she had no interest in men, and the two of us had similar tastes in women. So while there was no romantic feelings between us, there was the occasional rivalry for someone else's affections.

   But while our love had been purely platonic, do not think for a moment that it was not strong as steel. We could always count on one another, always lean on one another. We always had each other's backs. We were like brother and sister, and stuck far closer.

   I walked through the gates, not daring to stop for fear I would never move any further forward. I stepped towards where I knew she had been buried. The wind whipping my skirt, I stepped one foot after another, and with each step I felt the growing need to leave. I felt a rising dread knowing what I would see.

   A part of me refused to believe it, you see. I had seen her corpse with my own two eyes, and yet, I still had a part of myself that would not accept it. Could not accept it. That part of me did not want me to go on, did not want the illusion shattered. And so, like one who refuses to research a topic for the fear they may be wrong, that part of me begged me not to move forward.

   And then I saw it, and that part of me died. A headstone, smooth and engraved, with a name, a set of dates, and a final request.

HERE LIES
TIFFANY FLETCHER
4-12-2295
7-23-2318

LET NONE STOP YOU FROM FEELING JOY AT MY MEMORY, NOR PAIN AT MY LOSS. YOUR EMOTIONS ARE YOUR OWN.

   That had always been important to her, feeling one's own feelings. She had always believed that emotions were important, and not evil things to be shunned.

   Oh yes, one could do evil things while under their influence, one should always control their words and actions, but they themselves were not evil.

   The example she always used was anger. People often do terrible things when they are angry, but anger is, in and of itself, not truly evil. Anger is the pain we feel at injustice. To see an innocent person beaten to death by someone stronger than them, to know of women and men who had fought so hard for something only for one individual to take all the praise leaving the others to be lost to history, to hear of a woman who was turned out by her own father because she had been raped and was thus "dirty," these things insight rage. These things should insight rage.

   And I, standing here, staring at this grave, was enraged. She had died at the hands of a man who had wanted "favors" from her. She told him no, and he didn't like that.

   She got away and went to the police, and do you know what they said? They told her she was being difficult, and that she should have "given him a chance."

   He stalked her, she went to the police numerous times for that. They gave her the same answer as before. She had known they would, but she still went, for the principal of the thing.

   Her parents and I knew he was following her, she had told us the whole story, and so whenever she went somewhere, one of us would go with her. She went somewhere by herself once, just once, but that was once too many.

   She was on the side of the street, alone, when he pulled her into the alley, and he. . .

   It, it is too evil to put to paper, but needless to say, she fought against him tooth and nail, but it was not enough. And when he was done with her body, he hated her. I can not say why, but he did. And so, he killed her.

   We didn't find her body until the next day.

   The man was caught, put on trial, and was sentenced to three years in prison. That's it, only three years. Having a rich father can do that for you it seems. As you can imagine, I was baying for blood, a part of me still is, but while looking at the tombstone my anger was subsiding and a black pit of despair went in its wake.

   I stood there as tears began to fall from my eyes. My legs gave out as my knees caught me. I shut my eyes, shutting out the world, as I cried. Raw visceral sobs came from me.

   The death of my friend, the death of my rival, the death of my sister, it was too much. I lay down with my face buried in crossed arms, still weeping and wailing in the low fog. I don't know how long it took, but eventually my crying subsided to sniffles as I had not a tear left in me. I stayed there in silence for what felt like hours, like centuries, simply lying there in my own misery.

   I looked up at the headstone, and down at the freshly planted soil in front of me. I had been careful not to be on top of that soil, she was down there now. Then something flashed down in my vision, and struck it.

   A shovel.

   I stood up in surprise at the man who had shoved a shovel into the grave of my best friend. He turned his head in shock that there was someone here. The fog had become thicker since I got here. Amd it would seem the thick fog had hid me from his view.

   Before I could say anything, before I could react, before I could even turn tail for help, he swung his shovel into my head, and then I was out like a light.

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   I lifted my head and opened my eyes. Darkness, everything was darkness. I looked up and saw the stars, it was night, and the daylights had been turned off. I went to my pocket, and found my electric light before switching it on. I saw I was still in the graveyard, and I saw, a hole.

   I did not understand the hole, why was it there? Then my memories came back, and I looked at the other end of the hole. Tiffany's headstone. The hole was her grave. That monster had dug up her grave.

   Why!?!

   What had she done to deserve that, to deserve any of this!?!

   He hadn't even taken the casket, it laid there next to the grave wide open, its lid a gaping maw.

   He had taken Tiffany.