The Graveyard of Innocence

//Note: This was written for a theme of identity.
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THE GRAVEYARD OF INNOCENCE

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who am i?

i am my books,
my knowledge,
my words,
my actions.

i am what i am told
what i am taught
what i believe
and what i see.

i am what i understand
i am what i am taught to believe
i am what i choose and what i say
i am me, therefore I am.

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Far, far away lived a curious child with a quiet voice and thoughtful eyes, who lived in… a graveyard. The child knew how to read. He would look at the many names on the graves, often pondering over them. The child would wonder about the importance of names.

One day one of these stones will have my name on it, thought the child. But these names, he thought, referring to the names on the graves, have no meaning to me anymore. My name will have no meaning to anyone else one day. It will just be scratched onto a stone, forgotten except by curious minds coming back to read the names of those lost to time. The child wondered again. Is this who he was? Just his name? But no. That did not seem right.

Perhaps it is my personality, the child thought. But what was his personality? His silence and unwillingness to speak? Is it my love and desire to help others? Is it my hatred of those who hurt me?

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There’s a lady in the hut at the edge of the graveyard where the child lives. She stays there, unmoving, staring out of the window continuously, even though the outside view barely ever changes. The child remembers a time of joy and calm when the graveyard was well tended to, and glowed with peace and serenity… of laughter as the lady taught the child everything he knows.

The child lives peacefully, wondering about his question and never finding an answer. Who am I?

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Then a man starts coming to the graveyard.

The problem with this was not just that the graveyard did not have visitors. In fact, it would be nice if there were more people here; the child was often lonely.

It was just that the man had come here before, a long time ago.

And he had tried to kill the child.

The child, understandably, feared the man and despaired at the thought of his return. But he never came back. Until now.

The first time he came back, the child hid. The man looked around, as if searching for something, but when he didn’t find the child, he left. The child, relieved, assumed he wouldn’t return.

But he did.

The second time, the man had grown older. Wiser too, perhaps, because he brought a gift. A rose and vanilla candy. He didn’t stay long, just left the candy on an easy place to reach. It tasted mellow, sweet. An offering of peace.

Of course the child went and ate it. He hadn’t received candy in ages. The next time, the man brought a piece of candy again. Tangy, orange, a sharp new beginning.

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The child has read about many different types of people. Their different types of names, their different types of lives. Maybe it was the child’s nationality that made him who he was. But that did not seem quite right either…

The child thought about his language. His culture. Is that who he was? The child thought again. Or maybe it is others who make me who I am, he thought.

It could also be the child’s religion. The child loved his religion. It led the child to grow, and helped him hope for a good future.

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The child chose to go to the man himself by the third time, eyes shining and eager. But the fear remained, so he kept a safe distance.

Upon closer look, the old man… looked sorrowful. Almost apologetic. The child felt sorry, and decided he would humour the man.

For a while after that, the two kept their silent, careful interactions.

There was never a word spoken, just a candy given and a look exchanged. Finally, one day, the child gave in.

“Who,” he cleared his dry throat, unused for a long time, then started again, “Who are you?” He didn’t voice all his questions. There were far too many. Let the most important be said first.

There is a silence. The man looks at the boy, then turns his head away as if ashamed.

He does not return the next day.

The day after, he brings a sweet again. The child is confused.

Like the curious child he is though, he repeats his question.

“Who are you?” What is your purpose?

The man stays silent for a moment, and just when the boy thinks he won’t answer again, the man shifts, and settles on simply saying,

“I am no one.”

The child stares. He wonders what he means by that.

The child waits, but the man does not explain himself.

Thus the story of how a silent companion was added to the child’s daily life.

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The child has no entertainment, so he must entertain himself.

He finds amusement in the smallest of things.

A notable habit of his is watching the young lady. Simply lighting up the hearth, watching the fire—something definitely without a soul—dance with such life, while the lady sits on her chair, breathing, alive, yet devoid of any such joy. Another example is the oldest grave in the yard, one of his favourites. He often sits next to it, scribbling his thoughts onto his notebook. The next time the man comes, the child cheerily brings him to the grave. But instead of being interested, or even bored, the man pales and looks frightened. So they do not do it again.

The grave has a name on it. Conscience.

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Not too long after, the child asks the man the same question as before.

“Who are you?”

The old man answers differently this time.

“I am a person.”

This became the second in a series of varying answers, each increasing in honesty. Every time the child asked the man that question, he answers differently.

“Who are you?”

“I am a lonely human.”

“Who are you?”

“I am a man with many regrets.”

“Who are you?”

By the fifth time, the man returns the question to the boy.

“Who am I?”

The child pauses. “I don’t know.”

The man looks at the child carefully.

“I think you do.”

The child thinks over it for a bit. ”You are a lonely man with many regrets?”

The man nods thoughtfully. “Anything else?”

The child continues, encouraged, this time going farther. What does he know about the man? ”You are yourself, and yet you are no one. You fear, so you are human. You are a tired, lonely person. You are a man with many regrets… You have done much wrong in your life. You are kind, but you struggle. You fear, and you hurt. You are who you are.”

The man smiles, suddenly. The child is startled. He’s never seen him smile.

“Is that who I seem to you? If so, who are you?”

…the child is quiet. He truly does not know the answer. He merely shrugs.

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The child remembers the lady’s slow progression into despair. The day when she fully stopped laughing, and then when she stopped moving. He remembers her habit of giving him candy to make him smile. He chews on one of the candies from the stash he’d found in her room—blueberry. Sweet and tart. The taste of memory.

He remembers the first day the man arrived.

He remembers fingers squeezing his neck, and the lady’s last words in an appeal to stop the man. He remembers falling to darkness, and waking up to a world that was grey and bleary, while the lady sat on a chair in the lonely hut, forever looking out, never to speak again.

He reaches into the candy stash and finds there’s only one left. He grips it tightly.

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One day, the child wakes up and finds the man at the hut’s door.

The man looks at the child. He’s aged again. There is more strain on his features since their companionship began, but now, there is no trace of the man the child saw every day. The old man’s eyes are wild, his face red and flushed.

The child backs away, his mind flashing to hands around his neck.

The man’s eyes flicker.

“Child.” He spits out, like an insult.

The child shivers.

The man reaches into his pocket, pulling out a candy. The wrapper is yellow. Joy.

“Eat.”

The child doesn’t move.

The man pulls off the wrapper, and forces the toffee into the child’s mouth violently. Sour sweetness fills the child’s mouth. Lemon.

The child wishes to hide in the house. He wishes to be anywhere but here. But he is right there, and so he must suffer.

“Who am I?” He asks the child.

And as the child chews slowly, fear and shock keeping him quiet, he remembers.

Conscience. Conscience, Empathy, and Innocence.

The old man, the young lady, and the child.

He remembers, and the sour flavour swallows him whole, the memories returning vividly—

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Once upon a time, in a cosy hut of memories, there lived conscience, empathy and innocence. There was an endless expanse of beautiful land around their abode, where innocence loved to play, with his dear friends conscience and empathy. Empathy used to spoil innocence rotten, while conscience would take care of them, ensuring they came to no harm.

One day, conscience made a decision empathy disapproved of. There was a terrible row, and it led to conscience choosing to leave the place, and went off on his own journey.

Before he left, he gave innocence a goodbye gift. A lemon candy.

Innocence barely understood anything that had happened, and suffered as well. He missed conscience deeply. Empathy tried to console him with the homemade sweets conscience had left behind, but they only served to make innocence happy for a small period of time.

Soon, though, there were more pressing things to deal with than mere happiness.

Graves started forming.

The life outside slowly started to die. The land began to grow bumps, and grow into graves of stone, with names engraved onto each.

Empathy was horrified. She would continuously head to a nearby river, and throw water onto the land, which had never been necessary before.

But even the river dried out.

Empathy began to fall into a pit of helplessness and distress. She steadily faded from existence.

Innocence, in his alarm and fear, began to forget.

He forgot everything except that which was still around him.

So when conscience returned due to guilt, he saw the barren land and the emotionless state of empathy, and that the only thing that still retained its previous glow was Innocence.

Conscience, in his fury and despair, tried to kill innocence.

And that was the last moment, where empathy returned, and saved innocence from getting truly killed. But in the process, empathy was truly destroyed.

Conscience formed into Guilt. He left again.

Empathy turned into Apathy, lost to the world.

She failed to see the point in anything and did not get out of the hut ever again.

Innocence proceeded to forget the entire process of that as well, merely remembering his fear of guilt.

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As the child chews on the same candy that was given to him a long time ago, by the same person, he remembers.

“Who am I?” the old man—no, guilt—repeated.

“You are guilt,” the child whispers. “You are conscience, lost to the world. You are regret.”

“Yes,” the man replies. He almost caresses the boy’s neck, finally grasping it tightly. “Yes.”

And as the child takes his final breath, the sour taste of the candy lingering on his tongue, his hand reaches for the last one in his pocket.

Pomegranate. Rebirth, never reached.

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A hazy memory. Joy. Yellow rays shining through the small windows of the hut, filling the room with light. Laughter. Lemon candy, sour and delightful. Birds chirp, and everything is gold.

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A notebook lies open on a desk inside the hut, forgotten. It is filled to the brim with haphazardly written thoughts, and the book’s last page reads:

Ultimately,

You are who you choose to be.

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The man chose to suffer.

-The End-

Please do ask for clarification if necessary.

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His guilt almost destroyed his innocence, and it was saved by his empathy.

But the experience left him broken, apathetic.

Therefore the second time his innocence will actually die.

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