The Grave Keeper.

The young child's tears didn't come.Gaze as cold as winter, eyes a finished steel that was so smooth and meticulous in it's construction there could be no ambiguity about what it was and what it stood for. fists clenched together so tightly, blood spilled from the crescent indentation the child made in it's palms and unto the bladey grass. the callous wind moved haphazardly, an act which caused the grass to slap the child's skin leaving painful welts in it's wake. In years to come the child would not remember the woman who laid in the casket before the congregation. Although the child did not know it back then, it would be grateful for that because as it was the case with children everything had an added layer of melodrama because children were simply built and did not possess the emotional tools to process complex emotional information. admittedly those tools were psychological suppression and inherited trauma so maybe its better really
A large hand made it's way to young child's shoulder making the young child turn to look over at the towering figure behind.Uncle Robert gazed down at young child sternly, his features communicating a language the child refused to concede to .No, there would be no condolences from this child, not matter the form at which Mr Robert twisted and contorted his features in dissatisfaction.
the child stepped forward ignoring the whispers of the tired old hags huddled together the frigid crows, with their comically tacky hats and hawk like features.
'What a pity really!'
' Didn't the mother teach the child anything?'
' I expected nothing less from the child of the sanctum. A disgrace to pastor Tyres'
'The mother was a witch. Poor pastor Tyres had been blinded by her wicked claws and even wickeder ways! .'
Leaning over the grave the small child took a breathe in and said the words no child should say to a dead woman.

'I always hated you.'