11/20/2007 Edited. Took out some glitches and a nasty hiccup in the middle. It flows better now.
Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom.
11. Memory
Jasmine Fenton Sullivan clutched her cane tightly, while pushing open the old, withered gate of the small graveyard on the edge of town. With a small wave of her hand she dismissed her granddaughter, who stared after her worriedly before driving off into the twilight, the taillights of her car lighting the slight mist hanging over the place, giving it a strangely reddish glow.
The gate opened with a creak, as if it wasn't used much, which it wasn't. This was an old graveyard, no one had been buried here in more than two decades, and after all that time the visitors were few to non existent. Jazz knew of plans to demolish the place, to clear the graves, build houses there, but she still had a lot of influence in the city council, and up until now had always been able to prevent it from being disturbed.
After stepping through the gate, she awkwardly turned around, still leaning on her cane, and pushed it shut behind her, holding the flowers in her arm, close to her body. Alice, her granddaughter, had offered to come with her, to help her, but Jazz knew the girl really didn't want to. The graveyard was spooky, old, and, in the twilight, downright scary. Which made it the perfect time to visit.
Slowly, she made her way on the narrow path that twisted and turned up the hill, passing the old gravestones dating back more than a century, going higher and higher up to the more recent graves. The mist seemed to thicken into a fog as the darkness set in, and she could hardly see the outline of the leafless tree on top of the hill. Her feet bristled against the fallen leaves as she stubbornly dragged herself further, until she reached her destination.
With a sigh, she let herself sink on the old bench, silently cursing her old joints, knowing that sitting here on this cold, damp bench wouldn't do them any good. She inspected her flowers to see if she had crushed any of them by holding on to them so tightly, but they seemed to be alright. Quietly, she bend forward and placed one flower on each of the two graves in front of her.
"Hello mom, dad," she said softly, "It's been a while. I don't remember when was the last time I was here, my memory isn't that good anymore."
She chuckled. "Just like you, mom. I remember you always complaining about your memory in the end... So maybe the end is nearing for me too."
She shivered in the cold, pulling her cloak tightly around her, staring at the gray stones, trying to find meaning to it all, but failing. The stones told her that life was always temporary, everything came to an end, and even heroes died. She'd survived them all, and only now did she see the advantage of dying young. No heartbreak, no goodbyes, no pain. That was for those who stayed behind.
"Funny," she said, not in the least put off by the fact that she was talking out loud all by herself, "I remember what happened sixty years ago so much better than what I did yesterday, or what I had for breakfast this morning. Not that there was any importance to that of course."
She was silent for a while, letting the darkness settle over the graveyard, letting the fog grow even thicker. She bend over again, and brushed some of the fallen leaves from the old stone in a futile attempt to make it seem like the grave was taken care off. She long ago had lost the ability and drive to keep them clean, however, so it was more a gesture of affection than anything else.
Slowly, she raised herself upright and stared down one more time.
"Bye mom," she said, "Bye dad. Your Jazzerinces has grown old herself now. Maybe today was the last time..."
She said that every time she was here, and yet, she always found the strength to go again, to see them again, to reminisce about the old days, her youth, when the world was bright and the future seemed promising. And the world had been bright, and her future, now her past, had been gratifying. And now she had time to look back, and lose herself in the past.
She turned and walked back to the path leading up the hill, briefly stopping to put a flower on the third, older grave that was beside those of her parents, but she didn't talk to him. She knew he wasn't there.
Twice, she had to rest on her trek through the graveyard to the other side, where the huge family tombs were. They were so far apart that it sometimes hurt, but Jazz knew that it didn't really bother them. It bothered her though. They should have been buried next to each other.
A slight breeze touched her arms, her neck, and she shivered for a moment, and then shrugged off the feeling that she was being touched by icy fingers, that she was being watched from the fog. She could no longer see the dark form of the tree, only the big tombs that stood there, burying the rich people of Amity Park.
"Rich or poor," Jazz thought, "But all just as dead."
Finally she stopped at the dark, ominous structure that bore the name 'Manson'. Just that. A smaller panel next to what would have been the entrance if it hadn't been overgrown with weeds and bushes, depicted who were buried there, but she didn't go and look at it. She knew exactly what it said.
Instead, she looked at the old, moldy wooden bench beside the tomb, hesitating for a moment before deciding that she had been out here in the cold for so long, a few more minutes on a wet, cold bench wouldn't hurt her much more. She placed the remaining flowers in the small vase that was hanging on the wall of the structure, trying to arrange them somewhat before grunting to herself that it wouldn't matter to anybody anyway.
She sat down and closed her eyes for a moment. This was the place, this was the time, the weather was right. This was why she came here. She opened her eyes again and stared at the swirling fog and the dark form of the tomb, straining her eyes in the dim light. There was nothing there, however, and a wave of disappointment washed over her. Maybe she expected too much. Maybe they had moved on.
The lights on the streets were on, their orange light permeating through the fog, giving everything an otherworldly glow. The moss on the old tombstones behind her seemed black in this light, the tombs before her, rising up in the darkness, scary in their opulence and ugliness. Sam would have hated this.
And then she saw them. Two dark figures, sitting together on top of the Manson tomb, one with her chin on her pulled up knees, held together with her arms, the other leaning backwards, looking up as if stargazing. Soft voices rang through the fog, and Jazz strained her ears to hear what they were saying, but it was gibberish, distorted and echoing.
Then laughter, and the figure leaning backwards stood up and held out his hand to the girl, and Jazz imagined a smile on his face. The girl let herself be pulled up by him and he bowed mockingly, inviting her to dance.
Jazz wrapped her arms around her, sniffing in the cold air, feeling the tears leak from her eyes. She watched them dance, two dark figures, almost as insubstantial as the fog, turning and turning as if they were on solid ground. Suddenly they stopped, and the boy leaned over to whisper something in the girl's ear. Then he looked up over her shoulder, and seemed to stare straight at Jazz. She gulped.
She couldn't see his eyes, they were only black holes in his pale face, and yet she knew he saw her, sitting there in this gray place where all color had disappeared. For some reason, he scared her. He had never looked at her, he had never seemed to be able to see her, or even be aware of her before. It had always been just her brother and Sam, forever teenagers, forever young, sitting on top of the Manson tomb.
Then he nodded at her once and looked at Sam again, and they started twirling, faster and faster until nothing remained but swirling fog.
Shakily, Jazz dragged herself to her feet, her knuckles white on her cane from the tightness of her grip. He had looked at her, had acknowledged her, and she didn't want to contemplate the meaning of that. Despite her age, she still felt very much alive.
"See you next time," she whispered bravely at the fog, and slowly started making her way back to the gate where her granddaughter would be waiting by now, probably worrying, not so much about her, but about the scolding she would get from her mother if she found out she had let her grandmother go to the cemetery again, by herself.
She didn't look back. If she had, she would have seen two glowing green eyes staring after her, his form but a dark blur in the fog, his white hair practically invisible. But he, too, was but a memory.
