The river flowed on gently, the cries of the birds echoing through the cool air, distorted only slightly by the wind, moving ever so slowly and softly through the bare branches of the oak. It was December, not cold enough to snow. But it was a type of cold that chills a person to his bones, until all that he can think about is being warm again. It was the kind of thing that Ellen hated most. She sat by the brook and mourned the graves. Ellen felt a duty to be out there, to sit by the rippling water under an overcast sky, gray and dreary. She wondered if it would rain, and she hoped fervently that it wouldn’t.

She got up from the edge of the water carefully and walked to the cemetery. She looked on at the cracked, ill-kept tombstones marking the place of the dead without a tear in her eye. Ellen did not cry. She refused to cry. She refused to show the slightest bit of emotion while she was there.

Walking swiftly, she paused by a small headstone, bearing a small stone lamb next to the cross. She paused to look at the grave and read:

Tara Flaerin.

2001-2003.

“May she find the joy in heaven that she was denied on Earth.”

Ellen passed the tomb, her heart heavy, her eyes solemn. Her eyes were a clear crystal blue and they glimmered. Her heart did not go out to Tara. She did not care about Tara. Tara was gone, she was dead. It was not her job to love the little infant. It was her job to remember her, to know her. If she didn’t know her, who would? Parents never know the real child, and siblings only see the menacing, angry, dominative portion of the child. Tara Flaerin was never known by any man or woman on this planet. And maybe that was for the best, Ellen thought. Tara will be forgotten, and this is how it shall be.

The wind blew again. Ellen’s hair flew in a thousand directions until the gust was quelled, and she did not try to fix it. She kept walking on, moving away from Tara’s little gravestone, moving towards the one that she wanted to see. It began to rain.

Michael Madrin.

Michael Madrin lay deep under the quickly moistening earth, flesh rotting away, his once handsome face being eaten away by time. His once piercing, knowing hazel eyes were gone. They could be kind, be understanding, but there was never once happiness in them. Ellen had seen to that.

Her inky black trenchcoat rippling behind her, Ellen found Michael’s grave. It read not so differently from Tara’s:

Michael Madrin

1989-2004

“In death, let his peace be found.”
I made him restless in his heart, Ellen thought. I caused his hands to reach out for the knife, to let his quivering hands move ever closer to his wrists. In a single slash, he was gone.

Let the souls of the dead be relaxed. Let them be free. Let them be whole. Her mind raced through thoughts as soon as they came. Michael.

Ellen, beautiful Ellen, mild Ellen, calm Ellen, solemn Ellen, looked down at Michael’s final resting place. She was sorry for everything that she had done to him, knowing that she had killed him. She was as guilty without Michael’s blood staining her hands as she would have been if she had slit his wrists. Ellen knew it, and her icy blue eyes analyzed Michael’s grave one last time.

She said nothing, what was there to say to the tombstone of the dead? What was there for her to do but apologize?

Ellen reached into her pocket, pulled out a bloodstained kitchen knife, and laid it to rest with its owner on the tombstone. Wordlessly, silently, she walked away and back to the brook.