One Year: Chapter 1
Written 2012
Desi stepped out the porch door into the brisk, November air. Lifting his head into the wind, he took a deep breath and let the sharp chill rush through him, clearing his mind. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the sound of laughter, drunk and loud and full of cheer. Completely out of place for a funeral.
It probably hadn’t been his best idea to order alcohol for the reception. He had done so knowing that he would need some liquid courage to get through the day, but he had forgotten to take into account the reactions of everyone else he invited. Perhaps he had thought they would behave themselves that day, if not for the deceased then at least out of respect to him.
But who was he kidding? No one cared about the lower class. Especially not those who gave up on their own life.
He clenched his fists as another bubble of laughter swelled up behind him, annoyance rushing through him at their indifference. Did they even realize where they were? Did they know they were standing only meters away from a cemetery? They were at this funeral home to honor someone dear to him—someone whom had died right in front of his very eyes—and they were inside hanging around the bar and having the time of their lives. They cared more for a full glass of wine than they did for the fact that someone had just died.
God, there was something wrong with this world if those were the kind of people that made up their society. Just thinking about it made the anger within him surge.
Shaking his head, Desi stepped off the porch and into the cemetery before he could turn around and do something rash. This wasn’t a day for him to get angry; it was a day for him to mourn and find closure. He needed to walk around for a while and clear his head before returning to the reception. Perhaps he could find the calm he desired among the company of those resting in peace.
He ambled through the cemetery, lightly brushing the tips of his fingers across the snow-topped tombstones as he passed. His fingers slid over the bumps of a broken cross. He had heard that this cemetery had been put out of use a century ago, and it showed in the worn down stone. The very last person to be buried here had been lain to rest the very same year the national tests had begun.
Desi looked around the graveyard, wondering which of the tombstones belonged to the girl and how she had come to rest here. Had she been the first victim of the changing government, or had the suicides only come later, after the test had spread beyond the realm of academics and into their social structure? Had her parents mourned for her loss? Perhaps they had held her as she died, watching her blood spill out onto the floor and knowing there was nothing they could do to save her. The same way Desi had.
He froze as the memory slammed into him. Even after weeks of forcing himself to forget, he could still recall every moment of that night. The yelling, the fear, the blood. It was etched so clearly into his mind. He could feel it pushing against his defenses, trying to break through the mental barriers that held it in check, and he shivered.
No. Not now. God please, not now.
He squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to keep the memory at bay. He knew if he gave in to it now, it would pick him apart piece by piece, destroying any bit of sanity he had left. But it still persisted, seeping through every mental wall Desi built until the only thing he could see or recall was red.
Red clothes, a red knife, red staining the once white tiles. A red handprint on the cracked mirror, and two red, trembling hands searching for some sort of comfort. The two hands that Desi had taken, clutching long after their strength had faded until his own hands were gloved in deep, dark red. A red that stained far beneath the skin and would never disappear, no matter how much Desi scrubbed.
He glanced down at his shaking hands. Their olive tone stood out starkly against the snow beneath. Just weeks ago those hands had been covered in blood—his best friend’s blood. They had scrambled to staunch the flow from his wound, and they had ultimately failed. Desi could only watch as his friend had bled out in front of him. And for what? There was no reason for it that he could figure out. His friend had lost his life for something as fleeting as the snowflakes melting in his palms.
With a sigh, he sat beneath one of the cemetery’s oak trees, his back against the trunk and his head in his hands. A wave of nausea rolled through him, and he had to fight to keep from vomiting the meager breakfast he had choked down hours before. This wouldn’t do. He needed to get a hold of himself before he broke down in the middle of the cemetery.
Desi reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his lighter and the pack of cigarettes he had bought only the day before. There were only two sticks left in the box; enough to last him for a few hours more, but he would need to buy another pack before the day was over. He grabbed one of the cigs from the box and raised it to his lips, fumbling a bit with the lighter before the flame took. Inhaling deeply, he relished how the smoke filled his lungs and relaxed his frazzled nerves before exhaling in a stream of white clouds.
He leaned his head back against the tree, taking another slow drag on the cigarette. With each inhale, he felt himself growing more and more mellow, the memories vanishing back into the corners of his mind as the smoke swirled away into the winter sky. Finally in control again, Desi locked the visions of that night away. Dwelling on the past wasn’t good for him at the moment. He had to think of something else, anything else, than his own, miserable existence.
Tired of the skeletal branches above him, he dropped his gaze down to rest on the tombstone across from him. The marker was large, embellished around the edge with small scrolls, and it was close enough for Desi to make out some of the original writing, though it seemed that the occupant’s name had disappeared over time. The years, however, were still in tact, and it didn’t take long for him to calculate the difference between the two.
Whoever they had been, they had only reached the age of nine before leaving this earth forever. It was rare for anyone to die that young these days, and, when they did, no one acknowledged their loss. Only when they had taken the test did a child receive citizenship and become an actual person. And even then, no one was ever buried with as much care as this child had been. Not since the government banned the creation of anything artistic.
A deep sense of longing rushed through Desi as he stared at the child’s tombstone, drinking in every detail. A stone angel lay draped over the marker, her head buried in her folded arms. Though only a statue, it was clear that the angel was bereft, mourning the loss of someone so young. He could almost see the way her shoulders shook as she wept over the young child. From one of her hands dangled a small wreath, and around the wreath the words ‘Never forgotten.’
With such an ornate tombstone, Desi didn’t doubt that this child was remembered. He wouldn’t be surprised if their parents had come every week to lay flowers on her grave, and to ask God why such promising, young life had been ended. And then, when they had grown old and joined their child in death, there was always the angel to keep watch over the grave, eternally grieving for a life that never got lived.
It was more than what anyone these days would do for the deceased.
“You never used to smoke,” a voice called, breaking Desi’s reverie. It was a familiar voice, and he didn’t have to lift his head in order to know that his secretary was the one approaching him. Desi closed his eyes and lightly tapped the butt of his cigarette, listening to the crunch of snow beneath his secretary’s shoes until he was right beside Desi.
“I never went to funerals either,” he answered, his voice hollow. It didn’t take much effort to imagine the scowl that would be on Alexander’s face at his empty answer, and a quick glance upwards only confirmed that.
“It’ll be your funeral we attend next if you’re not careful.”
Desi didn’t answer him. The vision of a similar discussion danced through his head and he squashed it quickly before it grew out of control. He had gone through this conversation several times already, and, at the moment, it wasn’t something he was eager to repeat. For now, he would be unhealthy. He would listen to reason tomorrow.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, blowing smoke up at Alexander. He had expected him to be inside with the rest, getting drunk off of wine just like everyone else. But then, the secretary had always been more understanding than people gave him credit for.
“I figured you could use some moral support.”
“Moral support,” Desi repeated with a bitter laugh, tilting his head back towards the funeral home. “I have plenty of moral support back in there.”
“And yet you’re out here.”
That was true. Funny how that happened. Only a few months ago, Desi would have considered everyone inside the funeral home his close friends. He would have even joined them for a few drinks at some new, trendy bar somewhere in the city. Desi never would have dreamed of hosting a funeral in the first place. Just a few months ago, Desi had been one of them. Now he could only look at them with disgust.
“They don’t even care, do they? They only came because I asked them to. They don’t care that someone is dead.”
Sighing, Alexander braced a gloved hand against the tree trunk and took a seat beside him. Desi could feel the concerned gaze boring into his cheek, and he knew what Alexander would see. Wind-bitten cheeks, his shoulders and hair dusted with snow, and a half-burned cigarette held limply between his fingers. He obviously hadn’t been inside in a good amount of time.
“How long have you been here?”
“A while,” Desi answered with a shrug. “Strange that I feel more at ease out here than I do with the others, right?”
Strange that he felt like everything of worth had drained out of him long ago. He was no better than the corpses buried all around them.
“It’s not your fault, Desi.” As usual, Alexander saw right through Desi’s veiled comments, understanding what Desi was too afraid to verbalize.
Choosing not to answer his secretary, he turned and stared at the funeral home. The figures inside seemed to be dancing now, reveling in the company of each other regardless of where they were. Compared to the past, however, their happiness seemed flat, as lifeless as the skeletal trees and snow-covered graves around him.
Exhaling, Desi watched the smoke swirl away with the November wind before asking, “Do you ever wonder if our society is missing something?”
“Not really.” Desi nodded, not really expecting any differently. What other answer could the secretary give? He hadn’t been through what Desi had, hadn’t seen what society could really do. He stared blankly up at the sky, barely registering Alexander’s words when he asked, “Do you?”
“I didn’t use to.” But that was a long time ago, before Desi had seen the difference between what the world was and what it could be.
He took one last drag on his cigarette and dropped it to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot as he thought back to March, the month when everything had changed.