Introduction
He first met her in a cemetery, on January the first. No, perhaps met wasn't quite the right word.
The first time he saw her, it was in a cemetery on January the first.
The sound of fireworks still rung in his ears as he walked down the icy path to graveyard, boots tapping against the clear ice painted unevenly upon the salt-stained pavement. The iron wrought gates welcomed him home like a parent would a child, and he felt eight years old again and lost among all the dead souls, rows and rows of what used to be. He took his time, making careful steps through the grass as he read the messages engraved into the tombstone.
He traces the last one gently, feeling the sharp edges of the engraving against the polished granite, cold against his fingers.
"If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever."
His lip curled. Because hadn't he loved her as much as a kid could? Loved her too much, even, and now she was buried in a wooden coffin, lowered six feet under the frozen dirt, laid to rot. He pressed his hand against it so hard it drew blood, a viscous red against his pale hand, against the entire white fucking universe.
God, someone up there really hated him.
Offhandedly, he wiped the bead of blood on his jeans, staining a dark maroon into the blue fabric, before shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. His shoulders hunched over against the cold, his footsteps heavy.
Snow had started to fall by the time he was within sight of his mother's grave. It was a tall, lonely thing, beautifully ornate, but terribly secluded. Willow trees, wistful in the summer, now guarded it like skeletal soldiers. From where he stood, he could see a bouquet of vermillion leaning against the grey like a beacon. It was brilliantly bright, alive amongst the sea of death. His steps slowed as he approached the gravestone hesitantly. Could it have possibly been–? He dismissed the thought as soon as it had appeared. No, his father hadn't even cared when she was alive, why bother now that she's dead? His fingers reached out to touch the roses, recoiling immediately when it fell apart in his hands, crimson petals against the pristine snow like blood splatters, a painting of the memory that lingered in the shadows of his mind. He sunk to his knees, hands shaking as he tried to lock the nightmare away.
From the sky, a note fluttered to the ground, resting before him.
I'm sorry.
He looked up to see a girl, black hair framing a thin face, so pale she looked ethereal, barely there. He blinked, eyelashes sweeping his cheeks, but by the time his eyes opened again, she was gone.