Paint Me Red (ON HOLD)

Wine

Fall.

The season of death.

The season when leaves die,

And trees are left bare.

The season of sorrow. Pain.

The season when my parents left me.

When my brother left me.

Fall.

I hate Fall.

I was born in Fall.

Isn't it funny, how when we are younger, we think of the world as a better place, how we imagine the people to be warm hearted and kind... and just... happy.

When I was ten, I lost my parents to the dreadful Fall of murder and agony and longing. When I was sixteen, I lost my brother to the Fall of broken security and helplessness.

Life is never beautiful when you're all alone. In fact, life is never beautiful, it's ugly and terrifying and soul shattering.

How I miss my parents today, everyday. How I miss my brother, my last rock, my beat friend.

But that's what life is I guess, disguised agony in the form of a rotten sweet candy.

Hugging the black winter coat closer to my cold frame, I make my way down the old but familiar pavement. The dead Autumn leaves crunch under my leather boots, as the cold wind ruffles through my brown hair.

My brown eyes scan my surroundings timidly before settling themselves back upon my abnormally long legs clad in black stockings. The black of on my feet popping above the dull grey of the pavement.

My eyes still sting behind my spectacles, no wonder red and puffy from last night's bolts of depression and insomnia...

Or dead half-buried memories...

As I reach the familiar gates, behind which my family rests, I let the memories consume me, the weight of loneliness setting heavily upon my chest.

My eyes take in the scene in front of me as I push the gates open. The branched, barren trees standing sadly against each other, mourning over the loss of their leaves, which now lies yellow and dead under around their trunks.

The grey, still statues scattered uncoordinated in the area, some small, some abnormally big, some broken, some in their best preserved shape.

They might be planted here with the prospect to give a sense of peace, of the presence of God. But they only add into the haunted feel of the grey cemetery.

Cemetery.

Family.

Taking slow steps towards the very center of the huge cemetery, my movements halt once I'm standing in the middle of the graves of my parents on one side and my brother on the other. I let myself sink to the cold barren ground.

"Mommy, Hi." I trace the familiar inscription of my mother's gravestone, which is the closest to me. My heart aching in agony and longing for my mother's warm, loving frame.

Here lies:

Gaia Kourtasi.
(1975-- 29-11-2010)

Daughter, Wife, Mother, friend.

"We never leave, we simply shift,
  From matter to space,
  From Earth to the sky,
  And when you need me,
  I'm right here,
  Watching you,
  Around you,
  With you."