“Why are you out here?”
My eyes fly open at his words. His voice is strong and has a hard tone. It sends shivers all over my body, in a good way. Not even bothering to get up, I answer him with the sun glaring on my face and my hands down by my sides. “Two people I love very much are in there,” I say, referring to the crematorium.
I don’t want to go in.
I can’t.
“And…” he says it as if I should know. As if I shouldn’t care.
“I can’t go in there. I don’t want to go in there. They aren’t alive in there.” When the words leave my mouth, I look up to see him staring off in the distance, as if he’s thinking about what to say next. My eyes skim him and come to a stop at his hands. One hand has a skull tattooed on it, making me shiver.
“They aren’t alive out here either.” He starts moving, so I sit up and watch him go. His trousers are black and hug his ass, showing off the nice curves. He’s wearing black boots and a crisp, white shirt.
“Hey…” The man stops as he reaches the door, but it’s not the same door my mother poked her head out of, this is a side door. “What’s your name?”
Distraction—it’s good for the heart.
I think he’s going to answer me because his lips move a fraction, but then he turns and walks in through the doorway, not looking back as it shuts hard behind him.
Sighing, I lay back down, my heart breaking inside my chest. It cracks and continues to crack further, so loudly I wonder when the pain will stop, when it will all go away.
“They say death changes people.”
“Oh God!” I yelp at my mother’s voice, not hearing her approach. She sits next to me, her hand sits on my thigh and she gives me a reassuring pat, and continues, “A significant death.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” It’s my way of coping, and yet, at every chance, my mother reminds me they’re dead. Like I need to be reminded. I fucking know. I’m not stupid. But it doesn’t mean I want to accept it. She simply doesn’t get that fact.
“It’s changing you. You’re becoming more distant.” I look to her to see her eyes are lost, then she looks down at me. “Who was that man?” she asks, changing the subject. Mother’s good at that, getting lost in her own thoughts.
“A man,” is all I can manage to reply.
I hear more footsteps and sit up. My father walks toward us with his hands in his pockets. It became his burden to deal with it—they were my mother’s parents and my grandparents. Though, I have to admit, I saw them more as my parents and, quite simply, my best friends.
My heart, it cracks again.
“It’s time we go.”
“I’m going to catch a cab,” I say to Father.
He nods in understanding.
My mother stands. “No. We can drive you. Don’t be silly,” she says as if it’s obvious.
I look up to my father for help, but he shakes his head. His hand goes to my mother’s back, touching her softly, and she instantly moves into his touch.
“No. I’m not getting in the car with you.”
“Rochelle, really?” Mother says.
“Yes, I’ll ring you later. I might even walk home. It will do me good.”
“Gosh.” My mother shakes her head and walks off.
I lie back down on the concrete and close my eyes as I hear their car take off.
To live in this world is to hurt, I don’t care what anyone says. It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad that I’m struggling to breathe. Sitting up, I drop my head between my legs and a strangled cry escapes me. My eyes begin to water, and my heart beats so fast I wonder how this pain will ever go away.
“Stop thinking. It helps.”
Wiping at my face, which is covered with snot and tears, I finally look up. The man from earlier is standing in front of me again. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder, a very large bag, and he’s looking down at me.
“I don’t want to,” I reply.
I need the pain—it’s a reminder of who they were to me.
Every-damn-thing!
“Your loss.” He starts walking while I wipe angrily at my face and stand, my black boots clicking on the ground as I follow him to a large, black truck.
“Can I have a ride?”
His brows pinch together, then he turns and opens the back, throwing in the large black bag before he shuts the truck and leans against the door to stare at me.
“You’re asking for a ride at a crematorium? I could be a murderer.”
I shake my head—I couldn’t care at this moment. “I need a ride.”
The man doesn’t answer me.
“Can you give me a ride?” I ask him again, my hands going directly to my hips.