Axel

54

I S A B E L L A

His dark hair is damp, stuck to his forehead and that one longer strand of hair is no doubt stabbing him in the eye.

He doesn't move it out his face, both his hands already preoccupied as one is buried deep into the soil of the earth and the other running softly over the smooth stone.

His brand new shoes are dirty, and i don't have the heart to tell him he's going to carry mud into the rehabilitation facility.

Instead i stand in silence, holding an umbrella to shield me from the harsh rain whilst he crouches less than two feet away from me and embraces it.

He's quiet today.

He spent the past few days being a chatter box. It was an odd yet entertaining experience and it all seemed too good to be true.

He was experiencing withdrawal, and the only way to coverup the discomfort was yapping his way through it.

So he spoke everything on his mind and kept on his feet to distract himself.

It seemed to easy this time, like the withdrawals are hitting him a significant amount less than before. Until i realised he was getting better at hiding it all.

I knew he was trying to make it up to us, to me and to everyone.

He was ashamed that he'd shake uncontrollably so he blamed it on the cold. He was worried id think he didn't like my cooking so he conveniently needed to use the bathroom every time he ate. He was embarrassed of his panic attacks so he'd take random showers throughout the night.

He's afraid if immediate change doesn't happen eventually everyone will abandon him.

He hates the lost time between us, he hates that he has to go in and lose more time with me.

Now he hates the guilt he feels, sitting at his mother's grave and pretending like he isn't about to be admitted into rehab in an hours time.

I clutch the bright pink tulips in my hand to my chest like the rain will melt them before extending my hand.

"Here." I breathe, and his eyes refuse to leave the words engraved on the stone when he takes them from me.

He places them down carefully and i hate that the flowers look miserable now due to the rain - it manages to make the day that much harder.

When Axel stands he shakes the mud off his hands and finally moves that strand of hair out of his face, and then with one last look at the grave he stands at my side and shields himself from the rain.

I wrap my hand around his arm and let my body lean into him as i rest my head on his shoulder when he holds the umbrella for me.

We have yet to speak as we make our way back to the car, but the walk is slow and so peaceful that i find comfort at the cemetery.

"Will you visit me?" He asks carefully, staring down as his dirty shoes.

"Every week." I squeeze his arm in reassurance and find myself speaking in such a tone that would encourage him to have hope.