Part of the crowd claps, the regulars much louder than the vagabonds that have somehow stumbled across this place. Still, no handsome singer, though, and I feel my heart drop.
I just want somebody – anybody to understand my ways, and my life. My hopes, and my dreams. My desires, and the wickedness that lies subtly beneath the surface of my bony body.
For some reason, I saw hope when I saw him standing up there, but like everyone else, he’s gone – practically an apparition as the drunkards drown in my sorrows.
Chapter 3
The date I went on last night was typical. Well, for me, anyway.
Him: “So, what do you do for fun?”
Me (smiling sheepishly): “Well, I’m a musician. I love to read. Oh, and I love visiting cemeteries. It’s a hobby of mine.”
It’s always the same thing. I hold on to the hope that there’s somebody else out there, like me, snapping pics of old graves and rubbing interesting epitaphs – some of which I have framed in my apartment.
There is nothing scary about death, at least not for me. I find beauty as I glance at the rolling hills, the tops of gravestones looking like shadows against the orange and pink sunset. The birds sing as the butterflies and bees bustle about. Six feet under my feet, bodies are resting. Some have been here for centuries, some decades, and some for a few days. It fascinates me, this fleshy vehicle our souls inhabit as we travel down this highway known as life. Where do we go afterward? I’m not sure, but I find myself believing in something, though it isn’t conventional.
I’d like to think that it all starts over. Maybe it’s because I want to see if things are different in a different body and under different circumstances. One can only hope. I’m watching my life fall away like a sand timer, grasping at each grain – my heart stuttering every time a moment passes, never to be relived again. The sting begins in my heart, and spreads like a fire, but I stop it. It isn’t worth it, because there isn’t any use in crying over spilt milk.
I stop when I see the weeping angel, draped over her platform with her face hidden. She’s bigger than I am, and my God, she’s beautiful. This cemetery covers acres, and she sits right in the middle, the trees shading her from the evening sun. Pulling out my Canon, I kneel before snapping a couple pictures of the stone beauty – her wings resting delicately at her sides as if she were defeated.
She is a replica of “The Angel of Grief” – the original statue sits in a cemetery in Rome. The artist sculpted the statue as a monument for his dead wife, an act which I find to be candidly sweet, and though the replica is beautiful, I’d give anything to travel to Rome to lay my eyes on the original.
It’s due to beauties like this that I am a tombstone tourist – a graver – a taphophile… spending my days gravestone rubbing, photographing graves, and locating famous peoples’ burial grounds. It’s a passion that I’ve had since my days in my childhood backyard, jumping high on the big trampoline - reaching for the stars while the dead kept me grounded.
For centuries, people have sought out famous graves, and relatives. Visiting graves has been common dating back to Medieval times, when the people would visit gravesites to cherish the saints. In China, Ancestor Worship was an ancient tradition.
Garden cemeteries were introduced in the 18th century to keep loved ones around for a longer visit. As for gravestone rubbing, it has been in practice for centuries as a way of documentation, as well as to admire unique epitaphs. So, you see, what I do isn’t that strange at all.
“Mortui vivos docent” is Latin for “the dead teach the living,” which has always resonated with me. If not for the dead, what reminders would we have that this one life we’re given is so short? Sitting in a cemetery is sobering, because it reminds me that time is fleeting.
I hear the clearing of a throat, and I turn. Looking around, I don’t see anyone. I’m still alone, it seems. Maybe it’s the spirits around me. Perhaps it’s my rotten mind. But then, when I ready the lens of my camera, I hear a snap. But it isn’t from the shutter of my camera. I never hit the button. My eyes slowly travel away from the viewfinder, and my heart skips a beat when I see the source.
Him.
The brunette Kurt Cobain of my dreams… and he’s taking photos of a grave several rows down from me. When he begins to glance my way, I duck behind a large tombstone and clamp my hand over my mouth. This isn’t possible. There’s no way the dream man from the bar is standing here, in one of my favorite spots, taking pictures of the things that I hold so dear. I feel something soft against my arm, and my eyes grow wide when I see the large crow staring down at me from where it’s perched on the tombstone. I don’t have much time to do anything before he begins pecking at my hair, causing a shrill scream to escape my mouth before I’m rolling around, swatting feverishly at the air. The crow stays in place, staring at me mockingly as I look up at it in complete horror. I’ve never liked birds, nasty things.
“Sampson!” I hear, followed by a high-pitched sound that makes me jump. Looking over, I see the guy from the bar standing with his arm extended. The crow swoops over to him, landing on his arm and pecking what looks to be a treat from his hand. I stand, dusting off my black leggings and tunic top with a white lace skull in the middle. A gift from Liam.
“Attack bird?” I holler across the row of graves, and he laughs.
“Not usually. I saw you hiding over there. He must’ve seen you, too, and was trying to get your attention.”
I shrug, picking up my rubbing kit before turning and shouting over my shoulder, “You’re lucky he didn’t peck my eye out. One hell of a lawsuit, I’m sure.” He doesn’t respond, and I sigh from the pit of my lungs; the exhale expelling any hopes I mustered up when I saw him here.
Kneeling, I pull out a sheet of rubbing paper before laying it atop the weathered, engraved stone.
Annabelle Smith, died 1862.
There are intricately engraved vines with leaves of various sizes surrounding her epitaph – a little dove engraved along the last “h” of her name. Moss has collected in some of the indentions, which at times can prove difficult when trying to rub a grave – but I kind of like how the moss stains the paper greens of different hues.
“Do you come here often?” The man says from behind me, and a smile pulls at my lips. Didn’t scare him away yet, and he isn’t some druggy lowlife that I happened to screw once during a drug-induced stupor. This isn’t a man who abused me, and it isn’t some nice older gentleman with a straight-faced sense of humor. This is the stranger that I watched in awe. Hopeful to meet, yet cautious.
Even devils can sweep you off your feet.
If it were up to me, I’d avoid it all together. Still, there would be a need gnawing at me. To see love in its truest form with no repercussions attached. Somebody to love the skinny girl with alabaster skin.
“I do,” I respond, lightly rubbing the chalk along the paper until Annabelle’s epitaph can be seen. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen you here before, though.”
Turning, I peer at him beneath my hand which serves shade to my weary eyes. “New hobby? Are you a photographer?”
He shrugs, and my eyes jump between his, and the large crow which remains comfortably perched on his shoulder. His large hands dangle at his sides, and his camera dangles from his neck and rests against his chest. “A photographer, no. My mom bought me this camera on a whim one Christmas – before I went backpacking. Funny thing is, I didn’t really use it on the trip. It pretty much collected dust for six months while I used my phone to take mediocre pictures. As for hanging around cemeteries, I’ve seen some of the most beautiful ones when I was in Europe. I have to say that’s when I sort of developed a love for it.”
“So, what brought you here?” I blurt out, before quickly diverting my eyes and shaking my head slightly. Not enough to notice, just enough to repeat in my head, “you’re an idiot, Em. Move on.” I don’t even know him, and he doesn’t know me, yet everything in me screams that I’m not good enough.
Not fo
r him, not for anyone.
What if he knew about me and Liam? What if he knew about my desire for pain? My obsession for being knocked off my feet, solely for the sake of creating art? I don’t pay any bills. Liam does. My stepfather. The man I still fuck – all he needs to do is say the word, and I will open my legs for him. Liam knows that.
This guy? He doesn’t, and if he did, he’d be running for the hills.
“My nana asked for me to stay this summer. I figured it was the least that I could do, seeing as she paid for my trip around the world.”
“Wow,” I mutter as I roll up the paper, “How nice of her.”
“Yeah,” He continues. “She’s an incredible woman. She’s all I have left, really.”
I nod. I really don’t have anyone. I lost mom that night. All I’m left with are awkward holiday dinners and Liam caressing my leg every time mom leaves the dining room frantically in search of another dish. She’s beautiful, my mother. I didn’t get her blonde hair and crystal blue eyes, or her winning smile with pearly teeth. She looks at me like I’m some skinny dead rat that the cat dragged in.
“I heard you play the other night,” He says, and I freeze. I didn’t see him anywhere, and I listen, waiting anxiously between hurried breaths. “You’re really good. Mazzy Star has some great stuff. Something about the feel, you know? It always puts me in a dreamy state.”
I frown. “I usually stick with Nirvana. But…”
“So you heard my act?” He asks excitedly, and I look over my shoulder.
“Yeah, you’re not bad.”
“Thanks,” he responds, leaning against a pine tree next to the grave I’ve been rubbing - that damned crow perched on the grave beside me, watching everything.
“That last song… wow. I was captivated. Was it one of yours?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out, grabbing my things before standing and facing him. “I write in my spare time. Poems become songs.”
“Kind of how life becomes a poem,” he says.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I say, turning and walking towards my car. I feel him following behind me, and can’t help the stupid smile that pulls at my lips. “What’s with the bird, anyway?” I ask, pulling my keys from my pocket before hitting the trunk button.
The trunk pops open before I place my rubbing kit, and new rubbing, inside.
“I saved him, I guess. His wing was hurt, nursed him back to health, and he kind of just stuck around.”
“Isn’t it against the law to own one of those things?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It isn’t against the law to have one follow you around.”
“Touché,” I shrug, closing my trunk before turning to face him. “Name’s Emily. Em for short.”
He takes my extended hand before giving it a warm shake, “I’m Rowan – just Rowan. No cool, short nicknames.”
I smile slightly. I like his name. “I’ll see you around,” I murmur before releasing his hand.
“Can I at least get your number?” He hollers behind me, but I’ve already gotten in my car and closed the door. Rolling down the window, I peer out.
“No need. This is a small town. I’ll see you when I see you.” Then, I’m off, leaving him speechless as I speed off into the sunset like a gypsy on a mission to freedom.
Chapter 4
Gunther McLachlan is a strange man.
From the time I was about five or six, I remember the old man chasing kids around in his electric wheelchair – grey wisps of what was left of his thinning hair capturing the summer breeze as he screamed obscenities at the child that crossed him that day. I never messed with him, but I found each occurrence more entertaining than the last. He always carried a cane, though I never saw him walk with it.
Instead, he’d swing it at whatever kid he was chasing while burning that wheelchair’s rubber. The kids would make a game of it, of course – always purposely throwing a ball in the old man’s yard, or tossing rocks at his mange-ridden-black-cat that attacked anyone who dared cross the fence line. In an old rundown town like this, it wouldn’t be the same without an ancient crow like him – hard on the eyes and meaner than a junkyard dog.
I get paid to walk him around the nursing home he resides in – Shady Hallows – every Monday and Thursday. Twenty-five bucks a day, and all I’ve got to do is walk, push, and listen.
He’s interesting. Never a dull, or silent, moment with that man – his war stories and marriage woes, words of wisdom hidden behind a spiteful tone.
“Married Madge, and she was no better than Margaret. Mother said I had no luck with the “Ms,” which isn’t surprising, seeing as her name was Mary. Wretched old cow lived well into her nineties. Days shy of one hundred before she finally kicked the bucket. Still, I shed a tear for that heifer.”
I smile at his names, and the spite, that he has for his mother. It’s refreshing that I’m not alone in my resentment – no maternal love to be found, no-matter how hard I look.
I think Gunther likes me because I’m quiet. People think I have too little arrogance to step up and speak my mind, and too much humility to pipe in with my own experiences. The truth is, is that my diffidence is often misunderstood as humility. My inability to say what’s on my mind has made me some sort of sponge – soaking up everyone’s sorrows and molding them into something that I can call my own. Funny how mere silence can trick stories to creep out from the shadows. It’s surprising how much you’re able to hear and absorb when you care enough to shut up and listen.
“Park it right under that tree. Snuck us a sandwich from that bitch of a cafeteria lady, Betty. She’s lucky I don’t have my cane anymore. I ought to whack her.”
I grin as I follow his orders, never making a peep. This is how we work. I don’t talk, and he respects that. He degrades women, and it’s not necessarily that I respect that, but I accept it. It’s an understanding between two people who wouldn’t ever associate otherwise.
I park his wheelchair beneath the tree and sit on the wooden bench beside it.
“Can’t believe that Donnie Wilder had the balls to challenge me to a game of cards. Son-a-bitch doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. He has dementia. Go figure that he’d go and forget every single time I’ve whooped ’im. Go on, pull those sandwiches from my bag there. Surprised that old hussy didn’t peek. Nosy cow!”
Smiling, I pull out the plain bologna on white sandwiches wrapped in cellophane before unwrapping his, handing it to him, and then getting to work on mine.
“There was one, her name didn’t start with an M, though. I think Fi would’ve made me real happy, but I done messed that one up.”
Maybe the “Miserable Ms” were karma for whatever he did to “Fi.” The questions sit on my tongue, but there’s no use asking him. For one, it would ruin our agreement. With Gunther, I’ve taken a vow of silence, because once his mind is stuck on a subject, he’ll talk and talk and talk. I can’t say that I necessarily hate it.
I love it, actually, because it means that he trusts me. A lot of people trust the quiet ones because they know they’ll listen. Day to day, we get used to being interrupted and ignored – but under the shade of this tree, Gunther only knows me as “the girl who doesn’t speak but listens,” and I think it’s refreshing for him.
The nursing home is the last stop before the cemetery. It’s a sad place, and I find myself passing each room with a pang in my heart.
There’s Lucy, who stands in the doorway of her room yelling, “Help!” She won’t calm down until the nurse plucks the cards hanging from above her hospital bed and reads them to her as she runs her hand along her frail back. Lucy’s daughter filled each one with memories of her childhood to make her mother remember. I can’t imagine waking up every day not knowing where I am, or why. Only having memories of my childhood, nothing further. To not remember the paramount times in my life, like my wedding, or the birth of my children… it must be a miserable, terrifying existence, because you aren’t actually living at that point.
Then, there’s Do
nnie – ornerier than Gunther, surprisingly. He likes to challenge other patients to “wheelchair races” in the right wing of the home.
Sammy is a little man who used to jockey for the Mafia, and Gretchen likes to carry around a “baby” that her granddaughter gave her.
Between the colorful, lively faces, there are shells of elderly people holed up in bed, eating through a tube and defecating in diapers. If this is my last stop, I’d hope somebody would hand me a bullet and a gun.
“Fi…” Gunther continues after he realizes I’m still not talking. “She was absolutely beautiful. I saw her at a dance, and she was wearing a simple, white dress – tied around the waist. Her hair was auburn, curled around her face, and her green eyes… they reminded me of when I was living in Maine. They don’t have sand on the beaches there. Instead, there are tiny little rocks, and if you dig for a bit, you’ll find sea glass of different shades. Those were her eyes, something that could only be found buried beneath simplistic, grey rocks. She was different. Everything about her was.”
I chew the bite slowly as I watch his distant, white-blue eyes. They’re locked onto the fountain across the way - reflecting the tree branches in the distance as they fill with reminiscent tears. Hurriedly, he clears is throat and attempts to blink them away, but not before one escapes and slides along his wrinkly cheek. “Anyway. I think we ought to get back before the old hag catches on. Wheel me back, won’t ya?”
Nodding, I take one last bite before throwing the crust to the birds. I stand and grasp the handles of the wheelchair. Then I unlock the back wheels before we’re off.
We walk for several minutes in silence until he speaks once more. “Want some words of wisdom, kid? If you’ve got something good, don’t go fucking it up. You never know if you’ll find it again.”
The Horror of our Love: A Twisted Tales Anthology Page 28