Amoment of Deviation Amidst the Stench of Dope - Short Unnamed Story Post

Dawn was creeping over the skyline in the east, a distant fire struggling through the thick fog that choked the city in its early hours. Dew bathed the sickly grass below with thousands of tiny, frosty diamonds that disappeared when touched like so much fairy dust. They gathered on the dead rose bushes that had once adorned this site, but now provided little more then kindling.

The cemetery took on its own eerie light at this time in the morning, Bran pondered. It was always comforting to him to see the large marble monuments to the existence of those who could still afford to be left here. Or perhaps to their non-existence – he’d always liked that idea best. A monument to there demise, as though it were some grand or memorable event to be remembered forever. His favourite spot was below the crucifix, on the stone sarcophagus it watched over. Mrs H J Adding’s crumbling crucifix rose above the lower tombstones surrounding it – almost all a uniform arc shape. The blank face of the dying man was one of the first things Bran could remember. Somewhere behind him, beyond the rows of monuments was the great angel of Anna Maine – Great grand-mother at her death. She had a face, unlike the man on the crucifix. She looked as though she were crying. He could see her clearly from here, her hands raised towards the lightening sky. On one hand, a black bird rested. It regarded bran with its red eyes, tilting its head occasionally as though questioning his presence. They always did that.

Sighing, Bran stood up and shook the dew out of his hair. He shivered in the morning cold, his clothing soaked through. His own cross, suspended from a chain attached to a collar around his neck, swung with the change of movement to catch the morning light on its smooth, metallic surface. The bird’s eyes followed it, and it was joined by a companion, who took up roost on Anna’s Angel’s head.

Bran was trying to work out the cramps he’d developed over the night when he heard a sound behind him. The soft thud of footfalls rang through the silent graveyard, as the birds took flight with fear. Turning sullen, he waited for the inevitable.

A towel flew through the air to impact with his head. He struggled for a moment to pull it off before turning sullenly to look behind him.

A man watched him, grey eyes impassive. He wore a large windcheater, and the bottoms of his pants were soaked with dew. Sighing, Bran started to dry himself off.

“Why is it always this particular grave?” The man asked. Bran didn’t answer. “Is it because of her?” He motioned the stone Bran sat on.

“No,” Bran replied quickly. The man, a groundskeeper perhaps – Bran had never asked exactly what his job here was – tended to jump to conclusions like that. “It isn’t her. It’s him,” Bran made a vague motion behind him to the faceless crucifix. “And her,” He pointed to the angel. There was a moment of silence. Bran turned to the man, wondering what he was going to say.

He was staring absently at the church. “Have you gone in there lately?” He asked. Bran shook his head.

“Not really religious.” He said. He wasn’t sure really. He didn’t feel religious, but he felt drawn to all its symbolism. He never knew why. Just another part of himself that was hidden from him somewhere behind the fog of his own mind. Another length of silence followed.

“It happened again, didn’t it. That’s why you’re here.” The groundskeeper said, not taking his eyes from the churches spires. Bran looked down, embarrassed before noticing that, if you knew the signs, it was obvious. His hands were full of puncture wounds that had only just begun to heal, his clothing was torn a little in places – barely enough to notice. His sleeve still had a long, sharp thorn stuck through the cloth like a darning needle. Bran sighed.

“Don’t tell her yet.” He said quietly. The groundskeeper turned away from the church to regard Bran, thinking not for the first time that he may be as young as he actually appeared. He knew who ‘she’ was, of course. They both belonged to her, in a sense.

“I won’t.” He conceded. “But that doesn’t mean she don’t know already.”
Bran was silent.

“The father arrives at about 9. If you want, I’m sure he’d like to see you again.”

“No.” Bran shook his head. “I should go home.” He slid off the stone. “Besides, I have a whole new filing system to break.” He forced a smile and handed the man the towel. “Thank you.”

The man waved it off. “Hey, you come here more then a lot of the mourners do. A familiar face from the fold is always welcome.”

He always said that. Bran was never sure why. He suspected of course, and he had heard the talk. But it was hard to picture…

Bran headed off to the only home he had. He wondered briefly how this would be fixed up this time.

’When you buy an attack dog, you have to expect that it will bite people.’ She always said that…



- posted by Washi @ 2:27 pm