His worry turns to panic as he peers over his shoulder, and I am pulled to take a gander, just past the arm, my face is buried in—trying to make sense of it all. A man is walking towards him—well, it is more of a flounce. His features match those of my father’s, but not how I remember him. No, he is more like a younger version—It is as if he jumped out of the photo I found upstairs in the west wing. His modern-day clothes fit him snugly, while an exceptionally well-kept beard obscured his young face. It is the Citrine in his eyes that has me captivated, and the only feature that convinces me that he wasn’t some figment my mind conjured.
When he speaks, it makes my mind race. A thousand thoughts and questions collide at once, but none of them are clear enough to grasp. His voice is cavernous, reminding me of the lake and the accident—It left me drowning in my thoughts, with every word from his mouth dragging me deeper into the sea of panic. Threats pouring past his lips, filling my cup of queries.
Who is this man?
What did Peter do to make him so hostile?
Could it be he is after Oliver?
If so, why?
My brain is on the edge of exploding as Oliver tightens his grip around me. Peter’s face is so messed up that I am positive it was challenging to form any expression, but Oliver manages to manipulate it effortlessly, simpering at me as a sign of reassurance.
I snuggle into his chest, soaking in this safe feeling, before it's gone, as Oliver sits me on the bench in the Garden. A warm and comforting kiss befalls my forehead, then I open my eyes to realize that he has abandoned me here. No answers, just stale wet air from the storm, causing my damp hair to mat to my face. Taking the time to look around, I study the moon-rays as they dance in the sporadic puddles on the ground. Standing, I walk back over to the bush of Juliet roses and peek down at the headstones.
Instantaneously, I remember the garden chase. Then, I rush my way back over to the bench, the one that displays the stunning etching of the bird sprawled across the back. A closer look, and the engravings start to become a little clearer. The rain must have washed away a bit of nature that once grew there. Dirt is still caked in most of it, but the black of the dirt enhances the etching, providing a bold outline as it allows every detail to bask in the glory it deserves.
Someone put a lot of time and work into this piece.
Once I finish admiring the craftsmanship, I could barely make them out, but I see there are words—an indication that this, too, is a memorial:
My Dove…
Notuntil deathcan you be mine
Emory. Evangeline Selby
1992-2021
Looking at my hands, my nails are average length, I try to scrape the clumps out of the divots in the wood. I manage to smear it instead, as the rain still lightly falls, adding to the moisture.
Only a few letters are revealed:M*I*N*E.That was all I was able to get to before there was a thud and a splash as something fell in one of the various puddles around me. I turn slowly as terror clamps my limbs, holding them together like they’re in a Vise Grip, hindering my movement. I fight back the feeling, forcing my body into action as I turn around. There, a few feet in front of me, I see Peter—again. This time, he doesn’t move, he only… lies there. His breathing is shallow as he lies on his back in the small pool of rainwater.
A flashback of when my mother met him blinks into focus like a static TV.
Mom took us out for smoothies—she wanted to help us feel better, it was the first weekend we didn’t receive a letter from our dad. It had been a year—they were always so prompt, every Saturday morninga package showed up on the doorstep for each of us... even mom.
When we stepped out onto the porch to find the delivery box was empty, Evelyn and I were crushed.
Evelyn:(scoffing) Ugh, whatever.
She threw her hands up and stormed inside, shouldering mom on her way past, and once the door slammed closed, turned her gaze to me.
Mom:(sighing as she brushes her hair behind her ear) I really am sorry. I will message and try to see if maybe it was a delivery thing. (She smiles wearily.)
Mom walked over to the porch swing and sat down, putting her head in her hands—I joined her, resting my hands on her shoulder. I didn’t know what to do, I wasn’t even a teenager yet, but that didn’t stop me from trickling my fingers down her back to comfort her—I learned that technique from the best... her.
Me:Mom, (I say with a worried tone) can we go get some frozen yogurt?
Her sniffles fade to chuckles as she lifts her head to reveal the ruby color forming in her sorrowful eyes. She wipes her face dry, before taking me in her loving arms.
Mom:(She nuzzled her nose to mine) Of course, pookie.
I jumped from the swing with joy, bolting through the house to tell Evelyn the most amazing news.
Me:(Shouting like the kid I still was) Evelyn! You won't believe what I got mom to agree to.
I rushed through the house, throwing open every door. I found Evelyn in the garage, cross-armed at dad's old work bench—her face buried in her elbows, while her body shook with misery.
