No one knew how many hours Marie had sat on the same cold bench in front of the entrance of the cemetery. She huddled there crying while holding the same daisy button that her husband had given her, and that she had been wearing that night of the car accident. Now that little flower was almost unrecognisable, withered, just like her now; the time had continued going on unheeding and unheeded, just like the persons that passed in front of her. They were just walking shadows living inside their own world of problems and they had no room and time for her.
The hopeless situation of the poor and lonely Marie: just ignored by all persons around her. Though she pretended this situation wasn't affecting her (like she always did on her job, like she always treated all) the truth was different. It was the opposite; every face that passed near her but didn't notice her was a growing and indescribable pain, like a divine punishment. She realized that she must stop cutting her own hands so badly in that impulsive way she did. How she wished to be able to turn the time back; that way her husband would have never had to drive that rainy night carrying with her. The rends and scars on both hands now covered her skin in easy view of everyone (there were even some fresh blood stains). Despite this, no one, absolutely no one, paused to show care or ask her the reason of her pitiful condition.
She had been crying for so many hours that she had apparently forgotten the reason she stayed there, sitting alone in front of a cemetary. She continued on, feeling sorry for a loss of which she was not very sure how it happened and holding what might have been the last present from her beloved husband: a simple flower. That simple little thing was actually the kind of present that he would never care to give to her. He gave her jeweled rings more often than a living flower. How could she not have seen the bad omen that that unusual present really meant? After all those years of marriage, it was a pleasant surprise to receive her favourite flower. Her husband always knew what she liked despite his cool mien and apparent carelessness about presents. In his soul he was totally different, and she always accepted him like that.
But why she was delaying the logical next step for God knows how many times? She was there at the entrance of the cemetary, but just afraid to enter and "pay a visit to your loved ones" (as one of the plaques at the walls of cemetery reads). Oddly, at that moment, Marie recalled that she had never been the kind of person that took the initiative. It was always her husband who did that in almost every aspect of her life since she could remember, (with the obvious exception of her failed suicide attempt).
"What do I have to do now?"
she asked herself for several minutes (maybe hours)... lost again till she realized the useless of that situation and realized that it was the time to take the direction of her life, to correct some mistakes, and to "stop crying for everything" as her husband always used to say.
After she stood up and cleaned her eyes, she dropped the dead flower that she had held like a precious treasure and decided to head into the cemetery, while her legs trembled like a little kid's. It had been a long time since her last visit to this place, when her sister died only a teenager. Marie already had forgotten her sister's face, but that did not trouble her now. Right now she was thinking that she must bring some flowers with her though her husband never liked them. But these thoughts just disappeared soon after when she looked around and realized how desolate that place was. She was all alone. Where did go all the people that she had seen enter there before her?
For a few minutes she walked alone across the entire place until she reached the reserved lot that she and her husband had purchased years ago, and there it was as she imagined it; the first of the two gravestones that in the future would be their final resting places, but an unexpected sight caught her attention, a daisy bouquet, almost fresh and beautifully arranged. But why was that there? Everyone knew her late husband had liked neither flowers nor gifts from anyone besides her, and he never would approve of such an extravagant thing on his tomb. Perhaps it was someone's mistake? But while that thought and another dozen possible explanations crossed her mind, she crouched to pick up the flowers. She froze, realized the unthinkable, and as she crumbled to the ground (strangely holding again in her hands the withered flower she dropped before,) she couldn't help but start crying again, while reading over and over the inscription on the white tombstone:
"That your soul find peace, my beloved Marie."
_________________________________________________________
Edited by Rose Lachenhild
The hopeless situation of the poor and lonely Marie: just ignored by all persons around her. Though she pretended this situation wasn't affecting her (like she always did on her job, like she always treated all) the truth was different. It was the opposite; every face that passed near her but didn't notice her was a growing and indescribable pain, like a divine punishment. She realized that she must stop cutting her own hands so badly in that impulsive way she did. How she wished to be able to turn the time back; that way her husband would have never had to drive that rainy night carrying with her. The rends and scars on both hands now covered her skin in easy view of everyone (there were even some fresh blood stains). Despite this, no one, absolutely no one, paused to show care or ask her the reason of her pitiful condition.
She had been crying for so many hours that she had apparently forgotten the reason she stayed there, sitting alone in front of a cemetary. She continued on, feeling sorry for a loss of which she was not very sure how it happened and holding what might have been the last present from her beloved husband: a simple flower. That simple little thing was actually the kind of present that he would never care to give to her. He gave her jeweled rings more often than a living flower. How could she not have seen the bad omen that that unusual present really meant? After all those years of marriage, it was a pleasant surprise to receive her favourite flower. Her husband always knew what she liked despite his cool mien and apparent carelessness about presents. In his soul he was totally different, and she always accepted him like that.
But why she was delaying the logical next step for God knows how many times? She was there at the entrance of the cemetary, but just afraid to enter and "pay a visit to your loved ones" (as one of the plaques at the walls of cemetery reads). Oddly, at that moment, Marie recalled that she had never been the kind of person that took the initiative. It was always her husband who did that in almost every aspect of her life since she could remember, (with the obvious exception of her failed suicide attempt).
"What do I have to do now?"
she asked herself for several minutes (maybe hours)... lost again till she realized the useless of that situation and realized that it was the time to take the direction of her life, to correct some mistakes, and to "stop crying for everything" as her husband always used to say.
After she stood up and cleaned her eyes, she dropped the dead flower that she had held like a precious treasure and decided to head into the cemetery, while her legs trembled like a little kid's. It had been a long time since her last visit to this place, when her sister died only a teenager. Marie already had forgotten her sister's face, but that did not trouble her now. Right now she was thinking that she must bring some flowers with her though her husband never liked them. But these thoughts just disappeared soon after when she looked around and realized how desolate that place was. She was all alone. Where did go all the people that she had seen enter there before her?
For a few minutes she walked alone across the entire place until she reached the reserved lot that she and her husband had purchased years ago, and there it was as she imagined it; the first of the two gravestones that in the future would be their final resting places, but an unexpected sight caught her attention, a daisy bouquet, almost fresh and beautifully arranged. But why was that there? Everyone knew her late husband had liked neither flowers nor gifts from anyone besides her, and he never would approve of such an extravagant thing on his tomb. Perhaps it was someone's mistake? But while that thought and another dozen possible explanations crossed her mind, she crouched to pick up the flowers. She froze, realized the unthinkable, and as she crumbled to the ground (strangely holding again in her hands the withered flower she dropped before,) she couldn't help but start crying again, while reading over and over the inscription on the white tombstone:
"That your soul find peace, my beloved Marie."
_________________________________________________________
Edited by Rose Lachenhild
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