The Sunset Cemetery

You might be able to think a little more clearly if you could think anything but what's going through your mind right now. But you can't stop thinking it; it's flowing through you like water cascading over a waterwheel and you can feel gears spinning inside of your mind but you're powerless to do anything to stop them.

She's so beautiful.

You wish she would look up. Just long enough to see you standing by the gate with your arms shoved awkwardly into your pockets because you're never sure what to do with them. Just long enough for her to see you so you don't have to be the one to pull her out of her thoughts. You don't want to be the one to call her back to the sunset cemetery.

You always call it the sunset cemetery, but never out loud. Something tells you that the people around you might not like hearing it called that. Cemeteries shouldn't be associated with beauty. They are not hopeful, warm places. At least, that's not what they are to the people around you.

But to you, that's exactly what they are. Sometimes, when the sun is setting, you walk out of your house - you don't have to sneak because your mom doesn't give a shit anyway - and you walk to the cemetery. Its wrought iron gate creaks when you open it. You step around scattered flower petals as you walk; it's not like the petals can feel your shoes on top of them, but there's something oddly beautiful about the wilted flower petals and you can't bear to see them smushed beneath your shoes. Blankets of them accumulate in the places right next to the gravestones where the soil is a little lower than the rest.

You think about your father sleeping beneath the flower petals and know that he's better off that way. You remember how it felt when it was time to tuck him in, remember feeling a sense of relief instead of sadness because he'd been on his way to the sunset cemetery for so long that you'd already been prepared. You'd seen the sunset in his eyes long before he left.

But her brother had been born a sunset. She couldn't have been prepared.

You like it here at sunset cemetery. Your father is here and the flower petals are here, and when the sun sets, it rests on gravestones and the wrought iron fence and it's like some sort of painting, like the paintings you always imagine but don't know how to transfer to canvas.

But she does not like it here. That's why she's lost herself in her thoughts. Her eyes are rooted on her little brother's tombstone, on the letters and numbers that spell out his name and his short life.

"Sara?"

The sound of your own voice wounds you. The instant her name slips out of your lips, you regret it. Her eyes flicker towards you as she finds her way out of her thoughts; before she can stop herself, she glares at you. Her eyes remind you of those of the feral cats that hang out by the dumpster at the gas station. Starved. Raw. Angry.

Shit.

The glare dissipates quickly enough to discourage you from turning around and running away as fast as your feet will carry you.

"Hi, Gavin."

You hesitate before walking towards her. You don't look at her, choosing instead to maneuver your way around the flower petals.

"What are you doing here?" she asks. Why are you talking to me? she means.

"I came to visit my dad," you stutter. But that's not the truth. You saw her walk past your house. You saw the bouquet of flowers in her arms and knew where she was going. You saw the way her body was hunched over like it was collapsing and remembered when you'd been that way, back when your dad was still in the hospital and you weren't ready for him to fall asleep yet.

"Oh," she says.

"I'm sorry about your brother," you mumble, your words catching on each other. You're not sure if it's the right time to give your condolences, but it's too late now.

"I'm not," she snarls.

You're surprised by the edge in her voice. Wait, that's not right. You're not surprised. You're scared shitless. You're not frightened that she's going to do something to you; you're frightened because you know the anger in her voice all too well. It's a parasite. It tastes like gunpowder and stings like razor blades.

You're not sure what to say, so you don't say anything.

"You think I'm a horrible person, too," she mumbles.

What?

"What?" you ask.

"You think I'm horrible. Just like my mom. And my sister. And my dad. They all do."

"I don't think that at all," you answer.

She's staring at her brother's small, rounded headstone. "Yeah, you do. I saw it in your eyes."

No. No. You've got it all wrong.

"That's not why."

"Then why? You looked at me just like they did. I didn't cry at the funeral like they did. I didn't say anything nice about him like they did. I just sat in my chair and stared at my shoes. I couldn't even cry for him." She pauses.

"That doesn't make you a bad person."

"Then what does?" When her voice cracks, you feel your body go numb. "He was just a baby, Gavin. He was a day old. He didn't have a chance. He was so small. His whole hand barely fit around my finger. And he had eyes just like mine. Even my mom said so."

She's staring through his headstone. Her eyes are not moving from it, but you can tell she's not seeing it. She's getting lost in her thoughts again.

"But I didn't feel anything when I looked at him. We all knew he wasn't going to stay for long. My dad knew. My mom knew. I knew. But the difference between me and them is that it made them love him more and me not feel anything at all.

"That's why I'm here. I owe him. I brought him flowers. I wanted to talk to him. But there's nothing for me to say to him because I can't feel anything for him."

You're quiet for a moment before answering. "It's okay, Sara. Don't try to feel that way if you don't."

"I should feel something, Gavin!" she shrieks suddenly. You flinch. "You know I should! But I can't even cry for him. Not a single fucking tear. Nothing. Not even for my baby brother."

She's shivering. Her lower lip is trembling and you know you should say something but you don't know what to say. How do you tell someone that anger is part of letting someone fall asleep?

You move before you think through what you're about to do.

"Sara, look," you say.

"What?"

Your fingers move to the cuffs of your flannel shirt. You pull the fabric up, tugging it up until your wrists are bared.

"Look."

She does. Her eyes run over the thin white lines cris-crossing your skin. When her eyes meet yours, they are confused.

"Why?"

"I told you. I came here to visit my dad."

She's staring at you the way she was staring at the tombstone. You want to shake her eyes off of you, but you know that she needs to hear the words inside of you.

"He was sick. I knew he was going to leave. But I wasn't sad; I was angry. Angry at him for getting sick. For being stuck in the hospital. For getting my mom addicted to cigarettes again. For everything.

"But he loved me, and I knew it. So I hurt him by hurting myself. Every time I hurt myself, I convinced myself that it made things equal. That it balanced the world out.

"But one day, I was visiting him, and he saw my wrists."

You're shivering now. You're remembering how horrible you felt for what you'd done, remembered how the realization of how badly you'd hurt him had fallen in on you all at once. You remember seeing the sunset in his eyes fade away for a moment, remember how he'd wrapped his arms around you and cried and then you'd started crying and you'd stayed that way until the nurse came to say that visiting hours were over.

"You're not horrible, Sara. You're just hurt that he left. Even if you don't think so."

She doesn't answer. You don't say anything else, either. You both stand still and stare at the ground, watching wilted petals flutter across the grass until she reaches down and traces a finger across her baby brother's name.

"He was so beautiful," she whispers.

"He was like you."