The Sound of the Soil Hitting the Casket

I wish I was strong enough to lift not one but both of us.

-

                It is always hard to realize that something you once loved is gone. You cling to it clawing your nails into the last of the memories that seem to hold you and your world together, because if you let go everything will fall apart.

                You pretend not to understand that it's gone, because it's probably the only light you've ever had in your life and without it the only thing left is emptiness. And it's scary.

                You're scared but you can't run, seeing it slowly but surely moving towards you. The waves of pain, of loneliness. And you can already imagine them tearing you apart, piece by bloody piece until all that is left is that dark little corner in your head telling you how you didn't deserve it in the first place.

                So, yes. You're not stupid and you are not blind.

                But you pretend to be- closing your eyes and getting lost in the dream your mind creates to hopelessly try to avoid the impact. And for a moment, just for a little while, you are safe and everything is just like it always has been.

                Yet no one can really live with their eyes closed.

-

It was a hit and run.

                A car smashed into another one.

                The owner of the vehicle that caused the accident took off without as much as calling an ambulance.

                Two men and a woman were left to bleed to death.

-

Tristan was sitting in a cafe, observing the bench on the other side of the almost-empty street. It was pouring and the night was falling fast onto the small northern town.  Those few who were still walking down the main town road in front of him were in a hurry to get home. All dressed in black, they would hastily murmur their goodbyes to each other while passing by and hurry off. It was one of the many traits of living in a town with a population barely reaching two hundred – you knew almost everybody and almost everybody knew you.

                Tristan put the paper cup to his mouth and took a big sip of the bitter beverage trying to gulp down the damn lump in the back of his sore throat.

                It was unreasonably cold for the middle of spring and having spent a fair amount of time outside in this kind of weather, now soaking wet, he felt a cold coming up.

                Nonetheless he didn't budge an inch, making no indication of hurrying home himself. After all, he was waiting and he would be waiting as long as he had to.

                "Boy, I need to close up; my wife's waiting for me." Carl, the café owner, hummed and Tristan could feel a streak of softness and pity in his voice. It was highly unusual to hear the middle-aged man talking without that strict fatherly tone, which half the time sounded like he was outright scolding each and every one of them- from children to elderly ones. 

                "Okay." Tristan murmured and frowned at the thought of waiting in the rain. He met Carl's eyes and with a swift nod of his head, in the place of a good-bye, stood up and squeezing the cup tightly in one hand reached out for the door with the other.

                Carl's eyes trailed down the young man with a black suit and he huffed quietly, yet loud enough for Tristan to turn around.