I temporarily leave the city behind me. Probably not wise considering my primary objective is to make this a permanent thing, and I’ve still got shit to do, but I’ve got three bunches of flowers sitting on my passenger seat and they need to go where they belong.

I must’ve travelled this road a thousand times. That might actually be an underestimation, too. It’s not as much of a rural area as I may have unintentionally made it out to be. Hell, I’m only driving about five minutes of the urban environment. I guess I was just trying to be all deep and thoughtful, to continue the whole theme of moving on in life. Did it work?

There’s a tiny stream running next to the road. Or is the road running next to the stream? Don’t know. I can’t even tell you why I mentioned that. That’s what I’m supposed to do though, right? Mentioning a whole bunch of useless details that don’t accomplish anything is extremely popular these days. Alternatively, one could just ramble on about irrelevant shit.

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was wrong. The meaning of life isn’t 42. It’s death.

Happy thoughts!

I pull the car to a halt in the carpark next to the stream that’s next to the road. Do carparks count as road? Exiting, I take in a whiff of that serene cemetery smell. You know the one. Dead, decomposing bodies; the grief of loved ones; vampires; capitalism taking advantage of humanity’s basic love for each other in the form of overpriced boxes that you’re only ever going to use once; all stirred together in a cauldron with the nature’s beauty. It smells good, so I pull the bouquets out of the car, eager to play my own part in the ridiculous shenanigans of life and death. Don’t judge me.

Whoa, that person’s got a massive tombstone! Clearly he has the biggest penis in the entire afterlife. Oh, wait, it’s a chick. Giant, protruding clitoris. Coolio.

Her name was Barbara Williams, and from the dates upon the grave, I can see she was 70 years old when she passed.

Charlie Ryan. 83.

Dorothy Bohn. 93.

Charles Smith. 43.

Odella Jackson. 102.

Susan Gnau. 65.

Alice Swisshelm. 82.

A sea of stones, scrawled upon with pretty words to tell us all how great people we never met were. Never will meet. Tell me, what are we being kind to the dead for? They’re not going to get offended if we talk shit about them.

Oh hey there, you’re looking awfully maggoty today. I especially like the way your rotten flesh is hanging off your bones. It’s a good look for you.

Where’s the problem? Remember people for what they were, not for what you wanted them to be.

I place one of the bouquets in my hand down next to a large, near-blank slate, and swap it for an old, weathered bunch. Tradesies. Don’t get all wound up though, this is what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Happy Birthday Token…”

Token Fisher. 32. No memorable quotes. No notes from family or friends. Not even an ‘In Loving Memory Of’. Just a gray stone and some flowers. Nice and simple. The way he wanted it.

“I can’t stand here and say that I’m never coming back. Not when there’s things here – specifically here – that I can never take with me. But you’d understand why I’m doing this. Nobody understood what it was like to get a fresh start more than you. You’re welcome by the way, jackass”.

I grin at nothing.

“I’ll never forget though”.

Hanging my head, I walk on.

Nice and simple. They way he would have wanted it.

More names, side by side like suburban houses. Here lies the ignorance of humanity, take it all in and enjoy it, children. We all want to die the same way we lived. Good news. You’re all fucking cowards anyway.

A branch lies on the path in front of me. And who said humans didn’t affect the environment? We’ve had our fingers in every pie that the trees don’t know any better than to be like us. I suppose we’re pretty versatile, so it makes sense, but you’ve got to draw the line at dying in the same place. Creepy stalker fauna.

Innocently, I break a twig, but for the most part I navigate past the branch successfully, taking a brief moment to note the point at which the branch broke from the trunk. It’s quite high up. I wonder if anybody in this graveyard died falling out of a tree?

Taking my attention away from the tree, I stop in my tracks. Her silhouette is haloed by the angle of the sun, peering above the tree line on the horizon. Cross-legged she sits, one eye fixed on each of two gray angels. My angels. My angel. I choke. I’m a coward too. One nervous step backwards though, and my plans are foiled. I step on the branch. It cracks loudly, and she spins around. You can take your treasure of the seven seas, your filthy pirate bounty. I don’t need my riches. I don’t want them. I’ve seen paradise. And though I’m not worthy of passing the pearly gates, it eases my mind to know that it’s real.

She sniffs. Oh God, she’s crying. She’s crying. The sheer force of the waterfall drags me under. It’s useless fighting. I can’t win. I can’t swim. I’m drowning. I fall upon the ground next to her. She clutches at me. I surround her, refusing to risk exposing her to anything else, least it cause another tear.

We don’t speak. Sitting there, tangled together, we don’t even look at each other. We’re barely even acknowledging each other’s existence. We just stare at the angels we gave wings to. Wings that were plucked before they were ever used. Life’s not fair. Death’s not fair. There is no such thing as fairness. God’s a fucking cunt. Allah’s a piece of shit. And that crazy multi-armed elephant thing can go put his hands to use in a Bukkake video for all I fucking care. I’ll put them all to the firing squad for this. They take our lives, they take our love, and what do they give back? Pain. Fear. Suffering.

Janet Case. 68.

Mary Gallagher. 82.

Charles Geraci. 92.

Timothy Hall. 57.

Michael Cronin. 21.

These aren’t strangers. We can’t afford to dismiss them as such. These are my neighbours; my shop-keepers; my friendly faces in the supermarket. This is my life. This is my fucking family!

Connor Leroy Stone.

Anthony Michael Stone.

0.

You’ll have to forgive me if I find it hard to believe that there is some great, benevolent design here.

“Shelly…” I whisper softly into my angel’s ear. She pulls away to catch my gaze, trying to battle back the tears that impair her vision. She need not. I pull her back in tight, eyes still fixated upon the two tiny statues.

“Lee…” she whimpers. I hush her, rocking her gently from side to side like a baby. She is my baby, my ward to protect. If I could somehow find a way, I would wrap up the entire world like this. No one would ever hurt. But I am weak. I couldn’t stop the hurt of just one person. But I can fix it. I can change it. And it will never happen again.

“Stand up”. I rise, and her grip slips down around my legs. But she should not be on the ground. She should be placed upon a pedestal - a throne. My hand guides her up. Her skin is softer than I remember. Too much scar tissue over the years deadened my nerves. Too many wounds had to heal. The sword has been lowered, but in the absence of a shield it was the only weapon she had. The only weapon I had. I can be that shield. I can be her suit of armour – Her Man of Steel. Just as I once was.

Our bodies connect together like jigsaw pieces, as she nuzzles herself under my arm. The picture is complete.

“There’s always been something missing”, I think aloud. Her sobbing decreases, but I can feel my shirt is soaked already.

“I know”, she replies, her voice choked.

“I came back into town a couple of days ago”, I tell her, unprompted, and unsure of where to take the conversation.

“I knew you’d come back here”, she says, a little clearer this time.

“I haven’t slept since”.

“I haven’t slept in years”.

“Know the feeling. I thought I had sorted my shit out but…”

“Know the feeling”.

“I’m sober”.

“I’m clean”.

She shows me her arm, and we make the first clear eye contact since I saw her. I smile, heartfelt and honest. She always made me smile. My hand wraps around her bare arm, caressing it as it rolls down towards her hand. As our fingers interlock, we draw in closer, our noses lightly touching. I wipe the stream from her cheek with my free hand, before it clasps her other hand.

“I’m selling my house”.

“Which one?”

“The one here. If it wasn’t for this place, I’d never come back here”.

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“Depends on what you’re referring to with ‘it’”.

“Everything. The city, the…”

“Us”.

She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Her eyes try to leave mine, but through sheer force of will alone I keep her locked, and forced to think.

“Not us. You… you were perfect”.

“Hardly”.

“I made the big mistake”.

“You made the first mistake”.

“There were more?”

“I should have been stronger. I should have been smarter. I should have had the courage to do what I always knew had to be done”.

“What’s that?”

I throw her hands to the side and plant mine on each of her cheeks.

And we kiss.

If this were a movie, there’d be fireworks (and maybe a sex scene). But there isn’t. A bird chirps, a gentle breeze blows, and I can hear a car drive past. That’s it. But it doesn’t make the moment any less… perfect.

I hate to use that word, but fuck it. I’ve sacrificed any tough guy image already here, so I might as well delve into the world of clichés.

We break, and I notice that she’s crying again. For a moment I panic, but I soon realize these are tears of joy. And I’m the cause. It’s surreal. I’ve spent most of my life using other people as crutches, propping me up while my melodramas play out for the world to see, but now… things can change. This is affirmation of everything. And she tells me the three words that her lips have not spoken for five years.

“I love you”.