That one time he visited the cemetary
Wade had lost track of time. For all he knew, he’d been sitting there for days. Where? Well, not one of is usual places... He was surrounded by a bunch of silhouettes. Tombstones. Ovals. Squares. Crosses. It was dusk, the light slowly faded from the world and left the air crisp. His back was pressed up against one of the mementos. It felt cold, rough and lifeless against him, yet provided all the support he needed. His arms rested on his knees, hands hanging limp. His shape as chill and lifeless as the simple marks of men that surrounded him. More a spectre than alive. Numb. Not even sure if he was breathing. Wade's eyes was transfixed on the tombstone in front of him, but his mind was far away. Trapped in memories that sprung from the earth below, gnawing away at his mind. Memories that'd have him spiral downwards faster than Alice fell into Wonderland. By his side stood an empty bottle of Jack Daniels, his father's favourite brand. His habit supplied even in the afterlife. It was hard to read the name off the stone. You probably wouldn't find it, or even know who was buried there if you were looking. The military had provided it. Paid for the entire burial. Best they did it, who had loved him - than his son, who'd known his love. Was it good to have a place to visit the childhood traumas? Sometimes... His chest felt heavy, but this place always did that to him. As if his heart got transformed in to solid, soulless moss covered rock. Screams from the past chisled into it. It reduced him to that kid who would flinch and cover his head... Wade shuddered. He didn't hear the footsteps, dampened by the overly bright green grass. "Wade?" He didn't respond. The figure stopped beside him, and it registrered in his subconcious. The scent it carried was familiar, nice - nothing like the terror of the haunting memories. Wade let out a jagged breath and shivered. It was almost like this other living creature was bringing life back into him. "Woah. Are those bullet holes?" Oh yeah. Old ones. He stopped bringing weapons into the cemetary, guns particularly. He'd get carried away into a loop of guilt, shame and anger - and he'd empty his gun into that rock, trying to rid himself of the negative association emotions. His father's name hardly readable. He knew what it said though. Well enough. All too well. Now he only brought whiskey.
