Page 4 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“If you didn’t, we wouldn’t be meeting here,”he finishes.
Where the party is steps away.
“That was your doing.”
“My doing is yours,”he answers.“You can do more than watch from the outside. That’s what Ma would say.”
I sit up, dusting imaginary dirt from my leather pants and staring into the distant trees.“When you say things like that, you make it clear that you are me.”
“You don’t want me to be you?”
“I don’t,”I say, raising my voice the way I only can in my head. There’s freedom in yelling.
I can’t remember the last time I truly did.
“I disagree.”
I glare at him.“How can you disagree if you’re me?”
The boy cradles my cheeks, his palms resting beneath my chin as he lifts my face.“Go. You cause yourself more pain by fearing it.”
?
I sit on the outskirts of the festivities, watching the dancing grass and bugs, feeling the sloppy students and singing stars. My classmates stand around fires with bottles of alcohol. Some dance.
It isn’t long before I turn away, shunning the crowd I never joined, and walk further into the woods. I’m desperate to escape the echoing words in my mind that are not mine—despite that being the very thing I have to endure to find human connection.
It seems an impossible task. That’s what I came for, and I’m already running away. I’m already weak.
There was no reason to believe anything would be different this time, but sometimes loneliness makes you do irrational things.
As I escape the crowd, my fists clench, as if holding onto something that isn’t here—desperation. My feet wobble, and I almost stumble into a tree—alcohol. Someone not far from here is angry, a second is drunk, and the last is full of fear.
If this is what happens with three people, how can I face the hundreds by the bonfires?
Nearly the entire student body is out here.
I walk only far enough to take the edge off the emotion, then I drop to the ground. It’s better here, away from the party, alone in the woods, but not too far inside. Any further in the woods, and I would approach the cottage. I only go there once a year, and I will not give up my future for the present.
I lie back on the grass, just like I did with the boy earlier tonight. My eyes search the sky for constellations, landing on Ma’s favorite—my favorite, by inheritance. Hers are the only ones I ever look for.
The twinkling stars could dance forever, and I would lose myself in them.
However, I don’t get much time tonight.
A twig snaps in the distance, and footsteps approach. My head swings away from the sky, searching for the sound. My surroundings are empty—physically. But, by the gods, do I feel whoever’s nearing. Their anxiety fills my body. It doesn’t disorient my mind or clog my limbs.
It’s steady. It’s someone who knows how to handle themselves. So careful, it’s almost calming.
And I know who it is.
Quickly, I rise, running and ducking behind a tree before Azaire approaches. I hide beneath the thick bark, watching him carefully.
He sits on an unsteady rock, tipping back and forth, then pulls out a little brown journal and quill, touching the ink to the page.
My pounding heart slows, easing me into a lull as his anxiety settles slowly. Azaire takes on an entirely different emotion, something like discovery, but not so easily defined. I lean my head against the tree, drinking up the favored break from anger and fear. Still, I wait for him to leave.
I’ve seen Azaire almost every day for years—felthim every day. In Philosophy class this morning, even. He had an answer to the question of free will, one he refused to speak.
