Her solace was the tears she shed in the middle of the night, when she knew there was no one to listen to her sobs or notice her wet pillow..
He found salvation in the blood that often oozed out of his hand.
When their paths meet, will the blood be...
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Maxon hated flowers. It's no wonder I say a straight no to my mother when she asks me to take roses to his graveyard.
"He would keep complaining until they dry away, mom. You won't want that, right?" I tell her and she is brave enough to smile at me. But I can still see the grief hidden under the veil of that smile.
I walk to the cemetery alone, trying to hum a song. It's my favorite, but I can't remember the lyrics. I haven't sung in eons. It's only a five minute walk to the graveyard. Before I enter through the dusty steel gates, I pause to take a deep breath.
I hadn't seen his body after his death; I hadn't even gone to his funeral. I was too broken, too much in bits and pieces to have done that. I knew he would understand.
Soon enough, his rest place became a part of my life. But every time I came, a sensation nabbed me at my back, something that gave me goose bumps. Something that made me think again. It terrified me. And I never knew what I was scared of.
I sit in front of his grave, preparing for a long speech. I had made a mental note about all the things I want to say, but for a split second, I don't talk. I can feel his presence; just there, lying down on top of the grave with his lumpy shorts and dark shades on, smiling at me, telling me to be as cool as him.
"The burger at the school canteen is still stale," I start. "Bet you are having better food over there. Would be quite a luxury, isn't it? I haven't seen much of dad for ages; he has been too busy these days. I wonder if he is just avoiding me or something. Mom is doing okay. Planted a new batch of flowers last week, tells me they are doing good."
I pause, and I can almost hear him ask me, "And you? What about you Aid?"
"I am okay," I answer the imaginary question. But I don't want to talk about me. I don't want to end up breaking down in front of him. I am strong, I tell myself.
I search aimlessly for a topic to talk about and the first thing that comes to my mind is the girl in the plaid skirt, Eira as Marcus called her.
"There is a crying girl in the school. I saw her breaking down yesterday. I have no idea who she is, never seen her. But something tells me that she is like me, Max. Broken."
I have run out of topics. Maxon doesn't ask me anything, so I shut my mouth and stare at the epitaph on his gravestone.
