walk in the park // nigel & cyrus
@problematicexorcist The air felt different inside the gates of Strawford Park, heavier somehow. Cyrus shoved his hands deeper inside the pockets of his overcoat and drew his shoulders higher. Not even the sunshine helped. Every time, the same damn feeling, like cobwebs spun out of ice, which was a damn stupid description, and yet--And yet. He swallowed, uneasy, and watched the ground to avoid crushing the dead leaves underfoot. It didn’t seem right to disturb the quiet. It sure as hell didn’t feel safe. Every time, it was like this. Maybe one of these days he’d finally be able to talk himself out of coming. While for now, he could walk blindfolded to the Wright family plots. “So glad my family’s got history in this town,” he said through clench teeth. The metallic taste in his mouth was fading as he got his heart rate back under control. It’d just be a few minutes to pay his respects and then back to life as usual. Or as usual as it ever got.
Far from the cathedral and more prominent mausoleums, three generations of Wrights were buried in single row. His grandparents shared a large, double headstone while the previous generations had more traditional grave markers. Either way, it was as good an incentive as any to specify cremation. Crouching, he swept some leaves from the top of his grandparents’ headstone and cleared his throat. Words didn’t come an easier now than they had the last few visits. Grams was neat handwriting on birthday cards and burned cakes. Gramps wasn’t even that much. A smile that everyone said all the Wright men had. Cyrus shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He pressed his hand against the cold stone. Swallowing, he looked away from the familiar dates and inscription--both of them gone even before his mother left--and frowned at the newest marker set to the right. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Standing, he brushed off his hands, finally rubbing them against his jeans to get rid of the cold. The new headstone was only a couple feet away from his grandparents and that--that couldn’t possibly be right. Someday, yeah, there would be but not now. Nothing should be there now. He swallowed and stepped closer.
Laurence Joseph Wright. Cyrus’ heart stopped. The cold spread everywhere, tingling in his hands, paralyzing his throat, tangling up in his stomach and most of all keeping him from looking away. Jesus. Jesus, no. This couldn’t be happening. His dad was fine, fine. They’d been on the phone just ten minutes ago, this wasn’t real. He fought to open his mouth and gulped down the cold, heavy air only to choke on it. He doubled over, reached out to catch himself on the headstone before stumbling back. No, just no, he wasn’t touching that. It wasn’t real. It absofuckinglutely wasn’t true. He got his throat working, swallowing, as he straightened up. This wasn’t happening. It was a mistake and it was getting fixed.
Looking around, he could see someone close by--hopefully someone who actually worked at the Park and not another visitor, but either way, another person. Cyrus shoved his hands back in his pockets, because keeping them balled up hadn’t stopped the shaking, and stalked toward the other man. “Excuse me?” He sounded calmer than he was, thank God. “Sorry, but do you happen to know what’s going on with the--the headstones? There’s something...” Hadn’t someone mentioned that, though? Vandalism or something? “One’s wrong. It’s definitely,” he huffed, “it’s definitely not right.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back tears or laughter or both. God, this town.
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