Its leather is worn and scratched. The crook of the elbow is tearing. You can see little marks where keys were hastily shoved into the pockets. The cloth on the sleeves and neck is rubbed thin, the stitching starting rip at the edges. But the inside is made of soft and smooth fabric.
Desmond presses his face into the neck of it and holds it against his chest. He inhales deeply. It smells like that silly cherry-vanilla shampoo she used to use. She always insisted that it helped keep her hair smooth and flat, but Desmond knows that she just liked the fact that it made her feel girly.
He holds the jacket away from his face and looks at it. The bottom of it is stained a filthy red color. It spreads almost up to the neck. Desmond touches the stain gently and it feels rough on his fingertips. He takes a shuddery breath through his nose and the tang of iron makes him gag. He doesn't know how he didn't smell it before.
He holds the jacket again and starts to cry silently. He drops to his knees on the wet grass. The top of the gravestone in front of him is beaded with morning dew. Someone had left roses a long time ago and they were starting to rot and turn brown.
Desmond cries even harder when he sees them. He wishes he had thought to bring flowers. He wishes that he could make amends, go back and fix everything. He would do anything to see her again, to hold her and beg to be forgiven.
He just wishes he had brought her flowers too.