The next day, I got ready to leave my house half an hour earlier than the day before, hoping to pick up some flowers for my father's grave on the way.
Unfortunately, the weather was not in my favor.
I ran back into the house from my porch to grab my grey raincoat, which I threw on as I jogged to my car.
I ended up heading straight for the cemetery.
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She was waiting for me, in a heavy black trench coat that was damp, and matted strands of hair to match.
Her mascara was running streaks down her face from the rain, but it was no bother to her.
I saw that she held a white rose in her hands today, and I subconsciously asked where the red one was.
She gestured to the right, and as I turned, I caught a glimpse of crimson.
Her rose from the previous day sat atop my father's tombstone, petals sagging and wet, and fading red stains along the stem.
I approached the grave smiling sadly, when I felt her hand upon my shoulder.
"I thought it needed a little color."
I nodded slowly.
She began her tirade of strange questions as we gradually made our way over to the bench.
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YOU ARE READING
pale
Teen FictionNo wonder she was so pale, every amount of darkness she possessed was in her mind. *****
