The Collection

Truth

Um, this story is sort of sad? I'm not really sure but it's for sure not happy, soooo yeah ig lmao

Also, should I start adding the word counts to my chapters?

I walk through the tall, spiky gates. The cement pillars that stand next to me have gargoyles on top and they seemed to be watching every move I made. I fist-bump them and begin to walk through the rows and rows of stone, cement, and wood, knowing that deep below there were people who's secrets still haven't been told. People who might've been famous, and still ended up right next to "hobo John" over there.

I walk through the grass, noticing that I could tell whose families were still alive. Julia over there, the stone with her name has cracks in it, and there are no flowers or plants except for dried grass and weeds. Johan across from her though, whew. She is always found with polish, and an abundance of roses and daisies.

It's sort of weird isn't it? We waste time and flowers and money on people who don't care and can never pay us back. Some people don't even get those flowers though. They get crunchy grass and chips in their stone. Maybe they were always the one wasting their time and money and now there's no one to do it for them.

I think about all these thoughts as I go deeper into the rows and greenery. The deeper I go, the more cracked and chipped stones there are. The farther from the street I go, the less flowers appear, until all I can see is rotting wood and stone, chipped until you can't see the writing, and cement that's been so smoothed, it looks like there never was writing on there to begin with. The deeper I go, the darker it gets. I decide to turn around when the sun is nearly on the horizon.

On my way back, I look out for one grave in particular. It's stone is chipped and cracked, but when I see it, I know exactly who it belongs to. I walk over slowly, careful not to step on flowers and chipped rocks. I kneel next to the flawed stone, and quickly swipe my hand over the front of it. I pick up a nearby daisy and place it at the base of the stone. I stare at the flower for a few seconds before I look at the heavy rock. It seems like such a simple thing, but reading the words on the stone makes my eyes start to sting. It reads:"Karina Arellano 1998-2017"

And that's it. Not even anything about who she was. I still miss her. After dad left, and mom resorted to drinking, I still miss her. I cast a quick glance at the stone next to Karina's that reads: "Mania Arellano 1978-2014, Loving Mother"

What bull. Tears threaten to spill over as I remember how many times Mania proved she wasn't as loving as the stone lets on. I can't take it anymore. I look back at my Karina's grave once and get up fast, a tear leaking onto my cheek.

I leave and give each gargoyle a fist bump on the way out. After all these years I still can't stop doing that. It's a reflex at this point. I'm not sure if that's good or bad because honestly it just shows how many times I've been here and how many times I need a quick distraction as I leave. I get in my car and drive away. Halfway to my flat I need to pull over. My eyes have gone foggy from tears and I can barely see the lights on the dash.

I stop the engine and for the first time in two years, I let myself cry over her. She just up and left. I couldn't even bring myself to look at her name before today. Pathetic. After an hour of tears coming non-stop, sobbing and gasping for air, and my tissues slowly running out, I've cried myself dry. My lips are chapped, and no matter how miserable and weak I feel right now, the tears won't come. I decide to try and pull myself together for the rest of the way home.

When I get to my flat, I sigh and get out of the car. I pull out my normal house keys, and open my normal door into my normal flat. Tomorrow I'll have to go back to being normal old me. Not the me who visits her sister every week just to put a flower on her bed. Not the me who fist bumps gargoyles out of habit. Not the me who couldn't build up enough courage to look at anything that had a connection to my sister until today. Not the me who still has a burning hatred for the mother that decided to raise me and Karina until she finally thought she could just be done with us and we wouldn't care. Not the me who has to live with the knowledge that I was alone in the world and that no matter how many times people can tell me I wasn't I had to face the truth and realize: I'm alone and there's no one here.

My flat is empty except for the mess that I just don't have the energy to clean up. I'm completely alone.

I sit back into my arm chair, flick on the T.V. and hope something comes on that can distract me from the truth. I sigh, knowing I have to go back and face it at some point, but that point is not today. For now I can ignore it and pretend it isn't there. As I've always done.