A Collection of Ruins

Chapter 1 - Coping Strategies (Tess)

Tess

The rain fell in huge droplets, drenching everyone who dared walk beneath it without the protection of an umbrella. The sky was dark and cloudy, respectively mimicking the moods and eyes of everyone present. Maybe if it was a sunny day, it would have been possible to forget why I was there, and pretend everything was alright. But it wasn't a sunny day, and the reason I was there was impossible to forget.

It always seemed to rain at funerals.

My father stood, shoulders slumped, at the edge of the six-foot-deep hole that he had just lowered my mother into. Raindrops found homes in his disarray of hair, littering the messy mass of black with shimmering jewels; a messy mass of black that fell into his deep green eyes, leading tears to find homes in his fringe, causing the same mesmerising effect as the raindrops. As instructed, he reached out and dropped the first handful of dirt into the hole, leaving my mother to whatever exists after this life – if there is anything at all. The Council insisted that burying our dead would bring us closure. It didn't.

I had a feeling this particular wound would always stay open.

A full-bodied, coffin burial was a very old, expensive custom, but my father and I knew it was what she would have wanted. A Historian was a very strange and rare person to come across, even in The Metropolis, and my mother was the most enthusiastic anyone had ever seen. Her job was incredibly important to her; she knew so many ancient languages, so many ancient customs and names of ancient cities – she even named me one of her favourite ancient names. She was so happy about having a daughter to carry the name that my father couldn't bear to argue with whatever his name suggestions may have been. Not that it mattered now.

I stood away from the grave side, an umbrella using its best attempts to protect me from the swirling rain, and failing miserably. That was where I wanted to stay; away from the grave. Away from my father. Away from the truth. Just because I knew my mother was gone didn't mean I wanted to believe it.

 If I continued to deny the fact that she was gone, it wouldn't bring her back; I knew that. But that didn't stop me from doing it.

Eventually, I got tired of all the people walking up to me and offering their meaningless condolences, and made my way over to my father, who stood straight-faced, his eyes trained on the now in-filled grave.

"Do you have any leads yet?" I asked him – I wasn't in the mood for niceties or apologies. I needed answers like they were the air I needed to breathe.

He dragged his hand down his face – he was stressed, naturally, but in that moment, I honestly couldn't care less. "Thesalia..."

"Don't." I snapped, interrupting him.

"Don't what?" He inquired, sounding almost completely uninterested and exhausted.

"Don't call me that." I told him.

He blinked. "But that's your name. What do I call you if not your name?"

I sighed. "The guidance counsellor at school told me that changing basic things about me might help me cope better – might help me adopt better to life without her. To essentially create myself a new life."

My father reached out and caught a lock of my newly-dyed blonde hair between his fingers, saving it from the rain. "Is that why you did this?" He observed a delicate ringlet with intensity.

I nodded.

"So," he said, giving in and releasing the lock of hair to the onslaught of wind and rain, "what do I call you now?"

"I'll keep it simple." I insisted. "Let's go with Tess. It could almost be short for my actual name."

"Tess..." He said it softly, as if testing the name on his tongue. He shrugged. "It's pretty. Just like you."