𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄, divinity is a wretched fate.
Dreary Forks is a cramped town beneath a near constant overcast sky, enshrouded in evergreen.
Like every small town, Forks is rife with gossip. Most children's grandparents grandparents had b...
THE SECOND PART. ( oo. ashes, ashes, we all fall down )
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THERE IS AN EMPTY PLOT BESIDE HIS FATHER'S GRAVE, that Zachary finds a little morbid. For his mother to reserve a place beside her late husband, with her whole life ahead of her. On his other side, buried six feet beneath, Zachary's late Godfather is laid to rest. The bench placed before their burials has a dull plaque at his shoulder, that Zachary sweeps his baby blues across every so often, whenever he finds it too much to stare at his father's name carved into the stone.
Andrew J. Todd, 1974 — 2008 written along a glossy headstone, and the grass is starting to spurt in a blanket taunting Zachary with the passage of time. He rolls his lips together, his hands burrowed into his pockets with a constant bounce of his knees as Zachary intakes a shaky breath. Beloved father, devoted husband, dearly missed friend. May he rest in peace. Zachary clears his throat, attempting to be rid of the lump formed there as he glances at Waylon's neighboring gravestone.
Still, despite the reminder of his mortality, Zachary has no interest unlike his cousin to escape his inevitable death. He supposes that's actually the beauty of living, that it isn't permanent. Being bereaved however, is certainly the cruelest aspect of death. The dead being torn from their loved one's would never affect those that are buried but for as long as Zachary will live, he will endure the grief of losing his father and Godfather in his adolescence.
His bruising has faded, bones mended but Zachary's stomach still bunches in knots with loss. The nomadic coven hadn't just wounded him, but had plucked the life of two of the leading figures in Zachary's life. He bites at the inside of his cheek, with very little to say but so much unsaid. Zachary never knows where to start during his visits, with a shaky exhale as he leans forward at the edge of the bench.
Bunches of floras tuft from the outdoor vases upon the perches of their headstones, and Zachary smacks his lips with the bittersweet taste of his gratitude. He wishes he didn't have the opportunity to be thankful for something as grim as flowers at a grave site. Zachary lowers slowly in front of his father's resting place, and he knows that none of the little cards or bouquets are placed by his mother, wherein Sarah has yet to gather the courage to visit. His fingertips pinch the stems of the decaying, with wilted petals dusting the trimmed grass surrounding and Zachary hisses as a thorn pricks his index finger.
It's a tiny cut, and he jerks it to his mouth with the coppery taste invading his tongue and he peers at the rose. Rosalie's footfalls are unheard, but it's as if Zachary can sense her presence as he cranes his neck to peer over at the angel that drifts between the gravestones and Zachary ponders if any mourners believe truly as such. He might. Zachary's chest lightens faintly, rising to straighten with the dying flowers dangled from his loose fist as he strides toward her.
A delicate, cool touch finds the base of his throat, and Rosalie's windchime of a voice promises, "We can stay a little longer if you'd like," Her head tips to the side, her halo tumbling in waves of gold over her shoulder, "I don't want to interrupt."
