Of Monsters and The Innocence Within

The Grave

  The cold, still air resembled most of the bodies in the ground; lives of all lengths, shapes, and sizes marked by the same three things: stone, wood, nothing.

  Only the girl moved. And the woman who guided her, at least that is what the girl thought—it is a woman, right? —with no voice or sound, and a darkening grayness around them, it was hard to tell. The form suggested human at least, with two legs and arms. But even as they formed, they faded back into the mass the creature seemed to be made from, never truly clear. A woman it is.

  To say they walked would not be right, neither would floating; they moved.

  Then they stopped.

  The grave they stood before was freshly buried and an odd thing struck the girl. She turned to the woman.

  "There's no headstone or anything. Why?"

  But the woman was not looking at the grave, she was staring across the cemetery to a gate—locked? —and the people beyond it. They were crying, some turning, others already gone.

  The girl jumped as the woman spoke, a voice that was not quite a voice, nor even heard—just known. "Nothing, because this one had nothing. No joy, no love, no life. They had the belief that was true. They forgot joy and love and life."

  The girl looked to the dwindling number of visitors, then to the grave again.

  "Why are we here?"

  The silence stretched beyond the ground they did not quite stand on.

  "Like all life is, here it is too. Life is fast, forever-going, and when the moment comes, it rests here. Each grave marks a life at rest, before they move on again. This one has been laid here, but they are not at rest. So, we come, tell a story, and they sleep."

  The girl pondered this a moment. "Why don't any of them come and tell a story?"

  The woman looked at her now—at least the creature turned towards her slightly—and said, "This one has forgotten their love. Pain took it and twisted it, fear poisoned it, rotting the roots. Tell a story."

  The girl began to panic, words flying from her mind, "I don't know one!"

  "This one became its own monster. Tell a story."

  "What should I say?"

  "This one did not know light anymore when it shone in their face. Tell a story."

  "Does it have to be happy?"

  "This one once loved and knew love. Tell a story."

 "Does it have to be a story? What about a song?"

  "This one had joys but they had to leave. Tell a story."

  "I'm thinking!"

  "This one told stories that did not end. Tell a story."

  The girl spun as the woman grew larger, the gray mass darkening to pitch, spreading over the other graves. The girl thought she heard moans.

  "Okay! Okay! I have a story! It's an amazing one!"

  The moans ceased, the grayness lightened, shrunk, the woman turned to the grave now, waiting.

  The girl thought a moment and began. Words returned, ones she had thought she had forgotten, ones she did not know.

  "There is a man and two women weeping at a gate. They cannot come through it, because it is locked. They wished they knew where the key was so they can cry over their mother's grave. But their mother forbade any of them from standing by her grave. From ever coming near her again. Even in death, their love could not be allowed to reach her. And they loved her a lot! But she thought love, that she could ever be truly loved, was a lie. It was a thing beyond her, not her place to ever feel, to know, to give. So, she forgot it, forgot them. Forgot what life was about."

  The girl takes a breath. A warmth filling her up now as the words grew inside her—alive and true. "Life is about love. Love is warm, like a soft blanket wrapped around you. Soft is like a baby's skin, smooth and new, unweathered yet by life. A blanket is like wrapping your arms around yourself and squeezing—that is a hug; comforting. Comforting is good, it is sweet and pure and safe. Safe is being forgiven, forgiving yourself. Forgiving is letting go of what you could not change, what you would not be brave enough to. Brave is a smile, stretching your lips up and squinting your eyes because you choose to be happy. Happy is joy.

  Joy is choosing life, breath, good, over staying in the dark. Dark is alone. That is what those children's mother is right now. But she does not have to be. She does not want to be. She wants her children. She wants joy. She wants love. She wants life!"

  Does she?

  Life.

  Can she?

  The cold, still air resembled most of the bodies in the ground; lives of all lengths, shapes, and sizes marked by the same three things: stone, wood, nothing.

  The girl breathed. She felt warm—love, joy! —and knew life again.

  The woman watched as the wind stirred, racing from all corners of the world, to wrap itself around the girl, demanding it to be again--softly, like a blanket; warm, like a hug; light, like joy—and when the wind died down, the girl was gone and, in her place, a mask. The grave before them swept open to reveal an open chest, other masks inside.

  The woman reached down, thought of her old cave, the man that had freed her with her wish, and wondered at that love he had for his wife. She placed the mask in the chest that would be delivered there, to add to her collection. That the man would safely oversee and now she knew yet another kind of love as well.

  "What will be next?"