Cold. The wind doesn't care; it blows harder around my legs, daring me to fall. I walk on the hard concrete of the path, shoes colliding with hard sounds. The gates are open and creak as I passed under, welcoming in a hello. It is the first time I have been in a very long while.
I maneuver my way through the trees. It is eerie, late afternoon, and the sun is gone. Rain starts and I pull tighter on my coat, thin and worn.
Past an angel, past a spire, past a large-cut-out stone. By the wrought iron fence is a marker, small and insignificant. There I kneel down, my hand tracing the words. What they say is harsh and ugly, a contradiction on how they look; looped handwriting and graceful script.
I place a flower on the marble face, almost as if it will make it go away or hide it. It doesn't work. I rock back on my heels and sit, legs under me on the grass. It's damp.
I wring my hands, not out of nervousness but anticipation. How long until they find me? I am silent, unmoving, breathing steady, remembering time with you.
When I left, tears were easy to come by, so easy to spare. When I stayed kisses were frequent and heavy. Life was full, occasionally disrupted but never hollow. Winter was never harsh, summers were never long, spring was never dead, and fall was never flat.
Now? Crying was so frequent eventually I stopped. It was a waste knowing there is always worse coming. And your kisses, they no longer exist, unless it's as an imprint on my memory. Life is a shell for me now, always moving, always hiding. Exhausting. Winters eat away at me with their bitter edge, and summers days drag on. Spring doesn't bring happy memories, or the leisure time to enjoy new life. Fall holds no color anymore.
I wonder now, as I rest my head in my hands, if they have arrived yet. Do they wait for me beyond the gate? Or will they ambush me when I move?
An hour passes, and a bird swoops down to catch its prey. How primitive. But life is now primitive, you kill to live and you have to live to kill. Sometimes you use wands, sometimes you use hands, and sometimes you use rocks or rope or water. It is unforgiving and essential. Some one must win.
I tell you this, or at least I tell your stone. I say it softly, I am ashamed at all I have done. I am tried, I am worn, I am lost. I am young and yet I am so old. My hands are stained with blood, my eyes have seen horrible things, my skin is dirty, and my soul is tainted.
A twig snaps. I look at my watch; 2 hours have passed since my arrival. The corners of my mouth twist slightly upwards, but I do not smile. The rain has quickened, I am soaked. My face is wet, but from tears or drops of rain I can't tell. The soft sounds of footsteps reach my ears and I know my time has come.
I press my lips to the cold stone with your name. I gently brush it with my finger tips, and then I stand.
They are hunting me, it's a game. I stride forward to meet them, wand out, a picture of you tucked in the pocket next to my heart.