My dead Orpheus. The awakening

Chapter four

My determination lasts only until I step outside the school perimeter. Then, my legs slip out of my control and start running as the wind makes my eyes tear up.

It can't get worse than this, it just can't.

My first kiss, given to a stinking stranger who wasn't even nice.

The days spent dreaming about Cedric Ellenson and waiting for his messages, just a lie.

And on top of that, when I think about my sister and what she did to me, I feel like I can't hold myself together. Why? Why does everything good in my life have to end up this way?

I don't know where I'm going, but my body does. I turn onto Powder Springs St and feel my muscles relax as I slow down a little. I don't ask myself what I intend to do next.

The smug look on Cedric's face and Ariadne's mocking smile keep coming back to me, and I swear to myself that I will never allow anyone to make me feel this way again.

Never again.

When I finally start seeing the street signs, I realize where I'm heading.

The Georgia Memorial Cemetery is one of the smallest cemeteries I've ever seen. It's just a thin strip of land right on the roadside, but further down, there are big trees that provide shelter from unwanted eyes. And, most importantly, no one would ever dream of bothering me here.

That's what I love most about cemeteries, I think.

It's the only place where I can really be alone. Usually, I sit in the shade of a tree and read my comics, after leaving some flowers I've picked along the way on the grave of the respectable Mrs. Holmes, who died in 2010. People who see me think I'm visiting my grandmother, and I can read in peace until dark.

Here, of course, there's no Mrs. Holmes: she's buried at Riverview Memorial Park. But when you want some peace, one cemetery is as good as another.

The sun has almost completely set by now. When I step onto the consecrated ground and walk over the damp, crackling grass, I instantly feel better.

The other thing I love about cemeteries is that, even though I'm alone, I'm never truly alone. My throat tingles as I breathe in the vibrations of the dozens of souls bound to their graves, marked by simple carved marble slabs.

I don't feel agitation or torment, the kind they say spirits experience when they can't find peace. They're here, but at the same time, they're not.

As I approach some graves, especially the older ones, I feel absolutely nothing, while others are surrounded by an aura of life that's still waiting to fade away.

My heartbeat slows down until it's back to its calm, regular rhythm. I didn't bring comics with me, anticipating a romantic date, but I wouldn't have felt like reading anyway.

To try and push the events of the past few hours—and the past month—out of my mind, I wander through the cemetery, reading the headstones while I let myself be enveloped by the silent presence of their occupants.

I can't explain how I sense them, nor why, but I know they're there. It's a bit like when you feel like you're being followed, but when you turn around, no one's there... though, in my case, I don't feel threatened at all.

I take in the names on the graves and walk until I pass the cluster of trees I saw from the main road.

I imagined there'd be benches for visitors, but what I see surprises me.

There's a funeral monument, a small red-brick chapel with a sloping roof topped by a simple marble cross. No statues, no embellishments. Above the slightly ajar door, a plaque reads: "In memoriam."

If I close my eyes, I can sense the tomb is connected to dozens of souls. Their presence crackles like the tongues of a single flame intertwining into one identity.

I can't help but push the heavy door aside and enter.

It's cool inside, but it seems like no one's set foot here in quite some time. Withered flowers make a sad appearance in the bronze vases hanging on the walls, and it doesn't take me more than a few minutes to remove them. The petals crumble under my fingers when I touch them, and I promise myself I'll bring fresh ones tomorrow, after school.

If I manage to find the courage to return to Campbell, that is.

Despite the chapel's neglected state, the light switch still works. A small bulb casts a dim light, just enough to read the inscriptions on the walls. They're a series of square marble slabs placed side by side, each representing a person.

Men, all more or less young, look at me from oval photographs that accompany their names.

As I read, I can tell that the souls of some of them are no longer here, while others are so faint that I know they'll be gone soon. One, however, stands out for its intensity.
Orpheus Erving, I silently recite. Born 08-07-1939, died 12-13-1958.

He was only nineteen. The photo shows a cheerful-looking young man with sun-lightened hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. He's looking straight into the camera, so much so that I feel like he's staring right at me.

"I wonder if they made fun of you too, with a name like that," I murmur to the boy, studying his eyes. I can't make out the color, but they're probably a boring shade of brown or green. The kind I always wished I had.

But if someone at Campbell were named Orpheus, I'm sure they wouldn't be spared from teasing. Eurydice is an unusual name too, I know, but as my mom says, "it's elegant for a girl." For a guy, though, a weird name is just... well, weird.

I trace his name with the tip of my finger, noticing how dirt has collected in the engraving, making it look black. I scrape it with my nail until the "O" in Orpheus is clear again, and once more, I promise myself I'll come back tomorrow. With marble cleaner and a rag, maybe.

When I get halfway through the "R," someone clears their throat behind me.

I jump so violently that the dried flowers I haven't thrown away yet scatter everywhere, falling on me like a rough, slightly musty-smelling rain.

"I was just cleaning," I defend myself, turning to face what I assume is the caretaker. Cemeteries this small usually aren't monitored, but I've never been here except in passing on the school bus when the road over the bridge was closed for maintenance.

The person in front of me, however, isn't a caretaker. For one, he looks as disoriented as I am... if not more. He's wearing a rust-colored argyle sweater vest, and underneath, I can see the collar of a white shirt. Khaki pants are held up by a worn belt, and on his feet, he wears a pair of brown loafers with a gold buckle.

When I lift my gaze to his honey-colored eyes—not green or brown as I thought—my breath catches in my throat. He's not smiling cheerfully like in the photo, but his face is unmistakable. The full curve of his lips is drawn into an expression of confusion and displeasure, and his hair is neatly combed with a side part and a generous amount of gel. The freckles are the same.

Orpheus Erving himself is standing in front of me, alive and well.

Oh, crap. Not again!