Friday, 2 November 2012
06:19:33 PM (GMT)
A wave of black hair flicked across her face, the wind persuading another several to
join the first. A few strands stuck to the damp trails along her cheeks, and Lynette
pushed her hair behind her ears again, not really caring that it wouldn't stay.
"Why him, Flynt? And why like that?"
Of course, the late Mr Phillips had no answer for her, even if he had been able to
answer. At Gareth's wishes, she had not uttered a breath of his story to anyone, not
even the grave of her father.
She, of course, was the last to leave his side. He'd begged her to go. Said that he
could hear the Dogs barking, and that he didn't want her to get caught in the
crossfire. Not that there was any doubt in her mind, but the sight she saw when she
re-entered the ward absolutely confirmed his tales.
Seven deep gashes in his chest.
Blood staining the crisp white sheets.
He'd said that Hell Hounds were violent, but nothing could have prepared her...
Lynette raised a hand to her mouth to hide the small sobs and the white, ghostly mist
that her breath made. He didn't deserve that... Not even the most dispicable human
being deserved that...
She turned her head to the left, looking down the rows of headstones until she found
the one she was looking for. Fresh snowdrops in the middle, with two small union
jacks flying at either side of the flowers.
Tears as fresh as the flowers filled her eyes, and she turned back to Gareth's grave.
She knelt down, arranging the blue flowers with tender precision in the small vase
she had left there last time. On her knees now, she rocked back, sitting properly on
the cold ground, her face buried in her hands. Why did he have to leave? Why...
Why? This just wasn't fair...
A hand dropped to the ground, her palm resting on the earth above his coffin. She
wouldn't forget. Ever.
A warm, familiar hand touched her shoulder, and she leaned into it, tears dripping
from her jaw onto his hand. She reached up to her shoulder to put her hand over his,
but it simply landed on her shoulder.
Allowing it to drop to her lap again, she turned, imagining (as always) a ghostly
shape being blown away by the wind. Just a whisper remained as she stood up, the
wind engulfing her in its frozen caress. Remember. Lynette closed her eyes,
feeling a murmur of a hand take her own, a breath of cold lips against her knuckles,
warming her somehow. Remember...
She opened her eyes again, drawing her hand back from the vulnerability of the lying
wind. He wasn't there. She told herself. He wasn't there.