You stare down at the stone, your expression impassive. Your dark brown, nearly red eyes are dry, no tears fall out. You don't cry. You don't shed a single fucking tear. You feel no sorrow for the man that didn't even want you. His name is engraved on the stone, etched in forever. He died two years ago, on July 28th. You distinctly remember a chill in the air on that day, or maybe a slice of freedom and demons dragging the bastard down to hell.

You don't smile or frown. You just stare at it, not moving an inch. You hope he's suffering down in hell. You dearly wish you could have told him to rot in hell one more time. At least then he'd get an invite and welcome.

There's a slight breeze in the autumn air, chilling you to the bone. Dead leaves splay across the ground, in different festive colors of brown, red, orange, and gold. They drag across the ground and pass you, blowing off into the breeze, toward freedom and death. There's a ceremony going on across the cemetery from you. You can hear the soft weeping of the loved ones of the deceased.

It's funny, how they mourn for someone who probably deserved to die in the first place.

A couple is sitting on a bench next to a headstone. They're holding hands. The girl is crying, holding a bouquet of white roses, while the boy is letting her cry into his shoulder, a few tears streaming down his face.

It's funny, you think again, that I'm the only one not crying.

Leaves crunch beside you and you can feel the presence of another beside you. You tense, but don't look at the person; you just stare at your father's name, repeating it over and over in your head in distaste. His name makes you sick just thinking of it. I hate you; you whisper to him in your head, I hate you more than anything in this god-forsaken world.

"You're not crying."

Your head whips to the side, and you immediately shoot a deadly glare at a boy next to you. You contain your laughter as you look at him. He's got tan skin and yellow hair that has too much gel in it to be healthy. He's wearing ripped jeans, a hoodie, and biker boots. He's wearing the most ridiculous shades you have ever seen in your entire life. You ignore the tiny voice in the back of your mind that notices the small and pale freckles on his face and how his arms are muscled very nicely.

Go away, Calliope.

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock," you growl.

The stranger chuckles; it's short and breathy, almost like a whisper floating in the wind, being carried away by the other tortured souls of the world. "It just seems ironic, you know? This place was meant to be a hoard for dead bodies and sadness, and you're the only one not crying. Wonder why that is?" He says it so nonchalant, and it makes your blood boil. What gives him the right to talk to you about your feelings? Goddamn, he sounds like Rose.

"What about you? You don't seem to be aboard the waterworks trestle. Where's the fucking tears flowing passionately down your face, while your little girlfriend sobs all over your very expensive Wal-mart jacket?" You hiss the end for emphasis and intimidation.

Apparently, the whole intimidation bit didn't work out, because the idiot just seems to grin lazily at you. "Oh man, I'm fucking broken inside, you have no idea. The tears are in the blood, man. They're in the blood."

You just sort of stare at him for a moment, a bewildered expression on your face. You just… stare. Seriously, is this guy on something? Because, whatever it is, you want it. You want to be able to actually smile for once in your life. But, unfortunately, that is a nada. Your life is one big bag of horse shit.

It sucks, big time.

He waves a hand in front of your face, trying to get your attention. "Hey, you there, bro? Shit, I don't know CPR or whatever I'm supposed to do in this kind of situation. Come on, English, speak to me."

"You are the most idiotic person I have ever conversed with," you say in disbelief. Seriously, this guy. "And my name is not English," you add with a growl.

He smirks a bit, which makes you even angrier. "Yeah, well I can hear the accent even if you try to hide it. It's no use, bub. The jig is up." He makes a gun with his fingers and shoots you. "Bang."

You don't smile, but you do have to force a laugh in. "Why are you talking to me? Seriously, you're a complete stranger. Plus, you're a fucking creep."

Then he holds out his hand. Like it's completely okay to introduce yourself after trying to shoot someone with a finger gun. "Dirk Strider, twenty-two. Fashion designer and mechanic extraordinaire. I'm out of college. I like seafood, white wine, long walks on the beach, and puppets."

Puppets. Oh lord.

You snort, rolling your eyes. "You're still a weirdo. What kind of adult likes puppets?"

He fucking grins. "Oh shit, lots of 'em. I may be the only one who has a complete fetish over them, but still." You scrunch up your nose in distaste at the word 'fetish.'

"Like I said, creepy."

He ignores your comment and wiggles his fingers, itching for you to shake his hand. "So, what's your name, Mr. Grumpy Umpus?"

When you give him this look that just reads, 'you're a complete idiot, stay away from me,' he grins and chuckles like a goddamn hyena, and fuck you hate him already. You just want him to leave you alone and stay out of your life forever. You're not good with people. But that doesn't stop you from slapping away his hand and muttering your name.

"Hmm, what an interesting name. Say, Caliborn, what do you do for a living?" He seems abso-fucking-lutely enthralled by what you have to say and, Jesus, why won't he just leave you alone?

"Like I would tell you," you snort, rolling your eyes. "Why the hell would I tell some random stranger about myself?" You want to laugh more at his idiocy.

"That's how you make friends," he pouts. "You should try it some time."

"No thanks."

"So who died?" he asks, nodding at the gravestone. "You don't seem very sad about it, so I'm going to say you have daddy issues or something like that. Maybe you didn't like the bastard. Well, you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family." He hums and continues, "I'm here for my bro. Died a war hero and I'm a fucking shithead who can't even climb up one of those ropes to reach the bell. High school P.E. was torture for me."

You scowl, not really caring about his life. But apparently he already knew most of yours from one glance. "Piss off, fuckwad."

He grins. "So I was right. You did have daddy issues. Heh, don't we all?" He looks at his watch and sighs. "Well, guess I better be going now. I have a tea party to attend to."

You raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"My dear friend throws the best tea parties. You should come sometime. She invites the most interesting people you'd ever meet. And her mother is quite lovely and terrifying as well." He looks dead serious.

You gape at him in horror. "Didn't I say to piss off?"

He leaves with a smirk and salute of farewell, signaling that you'll meet again. "See you later, English." You growl and yell at him that you will most definitely not be seeing him again. And that your name is not English.

He tells you that you'll see each other again, one way or another.

You really hope not.