Craft (Dan & Phil)

Cemetery

Dan bowed his head against the icy cold rain tapping on his head as he made his way through the field of green grass contrast to the dreary grey sky. He passed through the maze of grey stones, names engraved onto each one. One day his name would be too.

He morbidly came to a stop in front of Phil's grave blinking the water droplets from his eyelashes. Dan looked at the rectangular mound of earth that was messily packed into the grave.

The grave looked as if it had been recently dug, which it had, but Dan knew the mess was from where Phil had clawed his way back out of the ground. Decaying flowers withered beside the tomb stone their colours pale and bleak.

He had come here alone to make sense of Phil's reappearance. He hadn't had time to before. He was afraid that if he thought about it too hard he would reach a terrible conclusion or that in discovering Phil he would lose him again.

He'd been scared to leave Phil's side for the past few weeks, grabbing onto each precious moment with his formerly diseased roommate. But now that Phil didn't seem to be going anywhere Dan had a chance to think over everything.

Dan crouched down and picked up a pale white flower in between his fingers, examining the browning edges and wrinkled petals. The existential crises came in a sudden wave as Dan thought about how soon he'd die. How quickly he and Phil would wither up and perish and how little time he had left with Phil and how perhaps Phil's death should serve as a warning to him. No, he wan't going to let that thought take him over right now. He had to think.

How had Phil come back in the first place? It made no sense. Phil was dead. He remembered it all so well. He closed his eyes.

Everything had been so normal. The light rain tapping against the window of the car, Phil tapping the steering wheel as he waited for the lights to turn green. Dan had been staring out the window listening to the radio playing quietly between them. He didn't even know how it happened. One moment Phil had begun to drive forwards and Dan was watching the grey buildings fly past and the next there was a sudden jolt of impact and Dan had been lost in a whirl of colour and sound, his heart jumping out of his chest-

There was a thud from behind him and Dan's eyes flew open in alarm. He spun round to see a girl who looked no older than himself, trying to push herself up from the ground, her foot caught behind a gravestone that she had almost certainly tripped over.

"Are you alright?" Asked Dan, standing up to help the girl.

"Yes," she replied, jumping up as if nothing had happened, her cheeks pink as she pushed her brown hair behind her ear. "Nothing happened," she insisted her cheeks growing brighter as she tried to hastily straighten the gravestone. "Uh- nice flower," she exclaimed indicating to the wilted flower still clutched in Dans hands.

"Ugh... thank you?" Said Dan slowly.

"I'm Chelsea," said the girl brightly sticking out her hand. Dan looked at her and then at her hand and took it hesitantly. "Dan," he told her. Her brown hair smelt like rain and had the same scent as the dying flower in his hands he supposed that was from the crown of white flowers she had on her head. He already had mixed feeling towards her.

"My mother's here," she explained brightly, her brown eyes gleamed as she looked at him. "Well, dead and buried under several feet of dirt."

"Uh-huh," said Dan with a slow nod wondering if he needed a way to get away from the slightly delusional girl.

"You here for someone too?" She asked.

"My friend," Dan said.

"Phil?" She asked.

"How'd you-"

"It says so," she said pointing to the gravestone behind Dan. "I figured that's where you got the flower from." She suddenly took the flower crown off her head and put it on Dan. "You look pretty," she said cocking her head to the side to admire him. Dan felt his heart flutter in his chest. He didn't know why.

"You think so?" He laughed.

The girl grinned and Dan felt an odd surge of affection towards her. She was so strange.

Suddenly he felt a prick on his scalp.

"Ow!" He cried pulling off the crown. He realised she'd left the thorns on.

"Sorry," she apologised, she took the crown back and picked the off. As she did he noticed scratches on her pale hands.

"Your crazy," he mumbled to himself.

"Just a little," she replied not looking up at him.

She put the flower crown back on her head, blood droplets forming from where she had been cut from the thorns. She was strangely beautiful.