Martha Bessell found it quite tasteless, tactless, and to put it truthfully, rather sad that some of the other boys (most notably, Georg and Otto) were taking this so lightly. A classmate of theirs had shot himself! And surely more than herself and Melchior Gabor cared… right? She sniffled, her face crumpling in on itself, her gentle hand gripping a few more wishful flowers than particularly necessary. The other girls' faces were red but dry, knowing that Moritz had his reasons, accepting them for what they may well be. Martha glared back at his parents, standing stoic and expressionless. At the sight of their regular, stone-straight faces, Martha burst into stifled tears.
But that was weeks back. Moritz had not survived the trying times, too frazzled and repressed to do anything but find his own way out. Martha respected that, but had hoped instead of floundering for so long, would escape- in a different way. Haunted by himself and the same specters all the rest of the no-longer-children found so often creeping back into their minds, he let them overcome him.
And now Wendla was gone, too, faultless in her demise. Her mama disapproved, eventually of her daughter's decisions and actions, taking drastic ones of her own. Now Mama was the one to blame. How long until the rest of them dropped off the edge? Would they go slowly, one at a time, or all at once? Who would end up surviving this? It frightened Martha to her toes to think that she might not be one of the lucky ones.
Her usual smile nowhere to be found, she looks heavenward. God would take good care of them, she knows it. Even Moritz, who took his own life. A faint trace of a giggle almost lets out as Martha thinks of her days at church, sitting with the girls and their parents on one side of the old building, watching as his sad, soulful eyes closed, his head nodding off slowly. He must have been up late again, his chin now meeting his chest, and his socks began drooping to match his sleepy head.
Martha smiles softly now. She looks at the impending darkness of the air, and she holds her breath. One, two, three drops at a time. A slow streak down the deep green veins of the trees, a wet thump onto the dirt covering their graves, a soft patter onto her sensible patent leather shoes. Another stream, this time down her face- but it didn't fall from the sky like the others. The rain begins to pour and she doesn't move.
She cries because she didn't know him, never will know him. Did she even know Wendla? She had hoped to always be the one to understand what everyone went through, the one to always be able to make it all right again. When Anna felt for her, Martha's world came crashing down. She had been the protector of the small, the weak, the strong who would not or could not. But she came to realize she couldn't protect everyone. And she wouldn't try anymore.
Not that she would ever try to follow in her flustered Moritz' footsteps. That was a path not open for discussion, a road not even able to be contemplated. She sighs, letting herself fall back onto the soaked grass as the sky keeps crying with her. Moritz wouldn't know her truly, even if he was still here. Neither would Wendla- though she, of them all, came closer than any to truly understanding. Now it was just Anna and Thea left for her.
And Martha will do all she can to keep it that way.