Page 77 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“Not anymore.” She swallows, shudders, then shrugs. “How does Eunaris?”
“They don’t teach you?” I ask. They teach us about Folkara. I figured the Folk would learn the other worlds’ customs. They govern over them, after all.
“Not really.”
If they’re not teaching the Folk about us, what are they doing?
“We’re all equal,” I say, and she raises her eyebrows. “I mean, obviously not equal to the Folk and the Lyrians, but amongst each other there’s no hierarchy.”
Aralia wipes her tears. “So why the fuck did you come here?”
I shrug, pulling at my gloves. “My mom.”
“She made a mistake.”
I sink inside of myself, wishing I could shrink in further. Leave the shell of me behind and never return again. As always, this person across from me is oblivious to how their words make me feel.
“What’s your deal?” Aralia asks. “Why do you never talk?”
“Is this helping?” My tone is a bit too harsh. “Talking about me?”
“Yes.” Aralia crosses her arms over her chest, and a feeling I know like no other fills me. It’s almost comforting, her hesitancy. It feels like my own.
“What’s worse?” I ask, meaning the question genuinely. “Never talking, or not knowing how to talk about yourself?”
Me or you?
Aralia looks into my eyes, and with more casualness than the two words deserve, says, “Fuck you.”
The playful nature in which she meant it almost makes me smile.
Or perhaps I did smile, because Aralia smiles back.
“The former sounds worse,” she answers. “I’d rather nobody know me than be lonely.”
I give her a sidelong glance. “Isn’t that what loneliness means?”
Aralia shrugs, answering, “Only when you’re alone.” I must have a knack for getting people to tell me odd little details about themselves, because she follows with, “The two people who knew the most about me left.”
Half of that is a lie. The lie makes her feel better.
I know what the lie is, but only because of Calista. She stopped talking to Lilac and Aralia after her parents found out about Lilac. After that, Aralia did the same.
Calista hates that they’re all alone now.
She was forced to leave Lilac, but she wishes that Aralia and Lilac still had each another.
Or, she did.
“Me too,” I say, to be of comfort. But she isn’t talking about death.
“I’m tired of this conversation.” Aralia leans back.
I can still see the pieces of Calista in her. It’s hard to rid yourself of someone you loved. They stay, long after they’re gone, in the same way that dead things decay. They turn to fuel, soil, food.
They become your world.
“Do you want to go back to the suite?” I ask.
