Another One of Life's Little Let-Downs

The sun had already dried up the puddles and mud on the concrete walkway between the graves. Tiny droplets of water hung on the tips of leaves, marvelously reflecting the light, gloating at having defeated gravity.

Ghostlike, the boy drifted between the headstones, his hair and his clothes heavy from the rain. He passed the hedges and graves of the unknown, and he passed the huts and houses, and in his slumber, he took no notice of the unfamiliar figure resting on the low wall.
Distractedly, he headed straight for the grave that he had come for. When he reached it, he stood motionless, and prepared himself for what was to come.

Over the weeks, he had accustomed himself to the hatred and anger that filled him whenever he stood at the grave. He was used to the closing of his throat and the trembling of his hands. He was used to the semi loss of consciousness. He was even used to the desire to throw something, anything, and he was used to resisting that urge. However, he noted, being accustomed to something makes it no less unpleasant than before.

Time was always a matter of irrelevance at the graveyard. He was not sure as to why he kept visiting: perhaps he was looking for something, some clue as to why he was going through this, why this had to happen to him, specifically. He was looking for answers, or something like that. And of course, he was always disappointed.

The sun had dissolved into an endless gleam of pink and yellow on the horizon, coating the winding paths and hedges and headstones with an artistic touch. His eyes flickered to the silhouette on the wall. He could see in the glow of dusk, the silhouette of a young girl.

She wore a dazed expression, one that he could not quite identify. In fact, the expression looked so artificial, she could have been wearing a mask. The only proof of her eyes being real was the continuous stream of tears flowing down her cheeks.

The boy glanced at his watch and made a quick calculation. He had been here nearly two hours and she had not moved once. Her hair fluttered softly in the wind, but her eyes were wide and unblinking.

Unsure of what he was doing, or what he was going to do, he began to walk towards her.

“Hey.”

The word seemed trivial. It didn't sound the way he had intended it to. It took her a moment to acknowledge his presence, and when she noticed it, she did not move.
“Hi,” was the response. She didn't turn her head. And the tears did not stop.

“Mind if I sit?” Nothing. He took this to mean no, she didn't mind.

It was not awkward or uncomfortable. The silence, he felt, had a deeper meaning. He sat there for a little while next to this girl, this strange girl with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands. There was something peculiar about her. He guessed she must have been seventeen, eighteen years old, not much younger than himself, yet there was something about her that seemed almost childlike, a quality he would have expected in a toddler.

The look was in her eyes. She stared at the world in endless fascination, they were wide with wonder, as if they could not drink in all the beauty that surrounded them.

Suddenly, they moved and rested on him.

“Who are you here for?”
He took a breath and answered the question he would usually have dreaded answering.

“My mum.”

As always, when he said those words, his eyes traveled and focused on the floor. His throat closed, his ears began to pound and his heart stopped. She studied him intensely for a moment, then–

“I'm sorry.”

He was taken aback. Not by the words themselves. No – he had heard them too many times over the last few weeks. So many times, in fact, that they were devoid of any meaning. It was more the sincerity with which she said them.
“I mean, you must have had enough of that.”
“You have no idea.”
“What I mean is, I'm sorry everyone thinks they can help you. I'm sorry that there is not a person in the world who understands what you're going through, and I'm sorry that everyone thinks they do. They say they do, and some people even have been there, but nobody realises that it's different. It's different because this time it's about you and not them. It really gets to you, doesn't it?”
“Everyone keeps telling me it's not so bad, she's still here, she's watching over us. I don't feel it. All I feel is empty. She's just not here. Do they really think they know what she meant to me?”
“They think they do. But if they were to stop for a second to think about it, they would realise that that's ridiculous. They couldn't possibly relate to how you feel because everyone feels something different, see? I guess the fact that nobody can ever understand is the only part that everyone feels when they go through something like this.”
“I guess you've had some time to think about this.”
“Too much time.”
They looked at each other for a long time. Her tears never stopped, but her eyes never wavered from the expression of complete fascination.
“Does it get better?”
“No,” she said abruptly, and after some consideration, “it gets different. It simply won't hit you as often. But when it does, it'll be just as bad as, or even worse than before. As time goes by, you'll “move on”. I think when people say that, they mean you'll be numb. You'll learn how to die a little, instead of let it hurt you. But I guess that will let you have little moments where you can think about her and you'll be glad you have all those memories to share. But when it does hit you, it might hit you even harder than at first.”
He had heard some of that before, about becoming numb instead of letting it hurt you. It was still impossible to imagine. The way she described it made it believable, at the least.
“How long did it take you to – How did you get – Are you used to – ” As he asked her about her own experience, he suddenly noticed that he did not even know what she'd been through, and as soon as she realised what he was about to ask her she jumped off the wall. She didn't look at all reluctant to answer him, but she looked at him calmly, the tears now drying on her cheeks, and said, “the experiences of others are only helpful so long as they give you guidance for the future. I can't be helped anymore, and I've told you everything I can about what I learnt from the unfortunate events of my life. I could tell you what happened to me, but it really wouldn't help you at all.” She smiled at him for a while, and then she slowly made her way back along the path, trudging along, leaving her sadness behind her.

In the moonlight of his bedroom, he thought about the day and the girl on the wall, and everything she had told him. In a way, he was glad that she didn't tell him what was wrong. It would only have given him one more worry, and would have made him want to yell at the world in its inequalities and misfortunes. She had taught him an important lesson: there were always people out there who did understand that they didn't understand. And although this made him feel less like he was different from everyone who had lost someone, it also made him feel terribly, agonizingly alone.