DEAR READER, this drabble will contain discussions of survivor's guilt, complex grief, and the loss of a mother and brother.
please read at your own discretion.
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SHE'S ALWAYS HATED COMING HERE.
It never got easier. The long walk along marsh paths between the trees and an unwavering breeze. Under it, her weary bones caught the chill. The terrain was no good for her heels, but she'd been feeling more comfortable in killer boots recently anyway. Still, nothing could stop her from the out-of-place aching each time she came here.
Killing time at the cemetery. Knowing this would be the last time made it that much heavier.
Rory swallows as two parallel headstones come into view. Like a statue she stands for a moment or two, jaw clenched and shaky hands tense. Judy Hicks, a loving daughter, mother, and town sheriff. Wesley Hicks, loving son, brother, and friend. Two graves, one knife. Each time cold blue eyes come to stare at each side, Rory knows that they exist as the biggest reminder she is a Hicks. The emptiness she saw in her mother's blues while she was dead on the floor. Compared to the light that was always in Wes', because he was a sunshine boy in every sense. Rory was born with the ice. It melted into frigid water as she stared from right where they'd left her. Alone in this shitty wasteland town. That frigid water that leaked down her cheeks until she brushed her nails against soft skin and breathed out. It's too soon to cry.
"Hi Mom. Wes. Um..." Rory dips her head, sighing out. She brushes a hand over her forehead, pushing some locks of borrowed blonde hair back. "God, this is so fucking stupid." The dismissive comment comes out in a scoff as she lowers herself to the ground, uncharacteristically lacking a care for the dirt that might stain her jeans. Her priorities have shifted a little since she first started coming here. She had changed, in a sense. Like midnight. Jeans can be washed clean. The red from the outside of the white shirt Rory wore on that day can't be saved in the same way.
She crosses her legs, placing her elbows on top of her knees. No one tends to come here at five in the morning. Rory can guarantee that she'll be alone. She coaxes herself to just start talking, even if it feels like she talks too much. She never talked to them enough in life, anyway. One more shaky breath, she stares forward and starts.
"I'm moving to New York tomorrow. With your stupid friends, Wes. Turns out they're actually not as bad as I thought and like, they're actually way more fun to be around than those bitches I used to associate myself with. I hope an air conditioner falls on them."
Her knee begins to bounce, arms shifting with a tense kind of awkwardness. She can't look at the stone anymore. A few blades of grass will be fine to keep her focus. "I just, I hope you don't think I'm running from you or like, abandoning you out here in this shitty town but.. fuck. I've gotta get out. It's so hard being here when you aren't. I can't fucking stand it."
