She hikes a shoulder up, gaze focused on the headstone. “Seen you were through this way on my phone map, decided to get us these. Plus, I knew you’d probably stiffen up in the cold and wet, then call to whine for me to come get you anyway.”
My lip curls up at the side. The thought of having to run home does make me feel sick.
As much as I used to hate it, it’s part of my daily routine now.
“I was going to see if you wanted to join, but you looked comatose this morning, so I thought you might have got back late.”
I popped my head into her room on my way down for breakfast; she was cocooned in her bed sheets, little cusps of snores coming from her open mouth. I didn’t want to disturb her when she looked so peaceful.
Those kinds of sleep are often rare.
She dips her head back as she laughs. “Thank fuck you didn’t.” She gives me a grimace. “I did a couple drive bys last night…I don’t know, something just felt off.”
Her eyes narrow, staring off to the distance. “It could just be all paranoia from Clarke’s death, but then when I drove past again, she must have been out late with a friend. Was heading into the room with a guy. She seemed to know him well enough, all smiles and laughing.”
We wouldn’t expect Elenna to be acting like a grieving widow.
And if she’s been having an affair, or is seeking comfort in others, that’s none of my business. She wanted away from him; he kept her prisoner.
He didn’t want to lose control over her.
“As long as she’s safe, that’s all that matters,” I add, and she takes a sip of her coffee.
“Seven years?” she asks after a beat of silence, and I slowly slide my gaze over to her.
“Yeah. Doesn’t feel like it.”
One thing life has taught me is that the sayingtime’s a healerisn’t always true.
Time is a record of how many years spent without them.
How you’ll soon end up living longer without them than you did with them.
That you’ll forget what it’s like for your heart not to ache thinking about them, and that there was once a time their voice wasn’t a distant memory.
When I’m here, I feel a sense of closeness when I visit Dad, having conversations and catching up on my life, or lack of.
I hope that wherever he is, if he’s aware of what happened to me and can see the things I’ve done, he’d be proud.
That I eventually dusted myself off and did good with the things he taught me.
He’d probably be mad at first, screaming at how irresponsible I am with such a risk, how there could be a better way, or even that their problems aren’t mine to solve.
But then he’d likely take his own weapon and get rid of those who hurt me.
I will one day; I’m just making sure I’m ready and have a catalogue to show them of what’s in store for them, instil some fear that they crossed the wrong girl.
A heavy weight settles in my chest; so many moments were taken from us.
Some I get angry at the world for, others I’m just glad he didn’t have to live with the knowledge of.
My dad got deployed right before I got in a relationship, and I wish he could have known about Saint and me, how much he brought me out of that shell of shyness I was wrapped in most of the time. Even standing here brings back memories of him. It was one of my weakest moments, and I saw a side to Saint I never expected.
We hadn’t even been together that long, but he didn’t cower away from my heartbreak.
He showed me the kind of man he was. That he was willing to be there through the good and the bad. If only this memory could have penetrated through the worst time of my life, things would be different.
I take a step back from the grave, a tear slipping down my cheek as the ache in my heart grows heavier.
