Creepypasta but it's Not Really Creepy just Sad

Fuck, I've Been Buried Alive (3/3)

(A/N: Bro I'm not a fucking expert on rhyming slang, most can barely understand, and for fucks sake I got no idea what it sounded like in the 1800s, bear with me mate.)

He quietly walked around the graveyard. He never did end up spotting the fabled "3000", but he did stumble upon a few years that were past 2002. How could he be- alive, heartbeat and all? Most of all why was he so draw to walking in THIS direction? Where was he taking himself? He even tried to stray from the path but the overwhelming anxiety grew the farther he went, and he always ended up walking the same way again. He quietly hugged himself- it was chilling- not the weather- more so the idea of how much has changed since he drew his last breath. He- he almost started to cry- and that's when he smelled it...

and felt it.

Rain.

It was raining on him, and he let the tears stream down effortless as he looked up at the night sky, decorated in clouds. This- this didn't sadden him. It comforted him, and so he outstretched his arms and let the rain fall onto him. The walls were high and the cemetery was closed, it was just him and the droplets coating him in a blanket of thin cool moisture. Thank God, one thing was still the same. London lived in rain then, and forever still. His eyes felt droopy, so he rested behind a tree, and closed his them, letting the sound of water dropletts fill his ears.

He'd closed his eyes for only a moment, and then he was ready to tred on, or at least he'd assumed it was a moment, but the sun blinded him when he'd opened his eyes. His eyes stung so bad, perhaps because he hadn't seen it in such a long time. He rubbed them furiously and tried to blink the pain away, waiting for his vision to return before getting up.

And then he saw her. She looked- odd- scandalous even- showing her shoulders off in- well he couldn't quite call it a shirt- it had straps instead of sleeves and- odd blue pants with rips. He would've assumed her poor but her fancy tinted glasses- why tinted(?) and her jewelery suggested otherwise. He blushed and looked away for a moment- before thinking about how it must've been normal. He decided to sneak behind her, noticing no one else up and about this early. He eyed the small cat themed bag- perhaps concealing a weapon- though an odd design choice for a purse...

He pulled it off of her, and before she could even react to this, he placed a hand over her mouth and gripped her, hugging her close to himself. She'd have bitten him if she'd known where his hands had been.
"Shhh darlin', I ain'  gonna hurt ya," his voice was hoarse and quiet, she wasn't sure if it was because his throat hurt, or because he wanted no one else to hear.
"promise, a' leas'- if as long as ya don' say a dickie, go' it?" he added, and almost let out a sigh of relief as she nodded, and gently but reluctantly let her go.

(A/N: probably gonna call the next set of these "Not a Dickie" because heehee hoho f u n n e y)