Demolition Lovers.

This time, I mean it. I'll let you know just how much you mean to me.

Demolition Lovers | My Chemical Romance

The ground is rocky and uneven. Rocks dig into the sole of my flats. My arms are outstretched to help me keep my balance. I try to step in a straight line. One foot in front of the other, swinging my legs to keep going at a steady pace without pausing for too long. Weeds grow from between the gaps to breathe in this lifeless vault of tombstones and worn out gravel.

People ignore this place. It's just too gloomy, depressing, and plain old boring for anyone to bother with on a regular basis. They do crawl here through mud and fog, but only on those days.

They come in waves wearing black from head to toe and dark sunglasses that cover their blatant staring. The family is the only one who truly cries. Everyone else holds a tissue next to their eyes as if wiping away tears but the tissues are always left dry and stuffed into coat pockets.

I jump over the thin rope. Technically, no one is supposed to be here, on this side of the cemetery, it's too 'dangerous'. This side of the cemetery has been closed off to the public for the past ten years. They said it would be until reparations were made but it's already been ten years. Regardless, most of the tombstones on this side are too old for anyone to care for.

I tilt my body and take a breath before running down the small hill of pitch black dirty ground. I'm approaching the other side of the cemetery. The side that looks like a victorian park with tall looming statues and even cement ground. It's nicer than the other side, but even with the less beat up appearance the gloom doesn't wash away.

I continue walking. There are hills and hills of tombstones covering the gray ground. I stick my hands in my pockets feeling the seeds in my fingers. I must look like one of them, a ghost walking about wearing a white dress.

Her name was Marisa Brandt, she was seven years olds and died in a fire. No, she wasn't my sister, not even a relative, but I knew her all her life. I was her babysitter.

It was just one day and I never did think twice when I ask her parents if I could take the day off.

Every friday night exactly at eight o'clock I would walk over from my house to hers. Her parents would meet me at the door handing me a fifty dollar bill and I would step inside. She would be sitting on the couch in the living holding a movie in hand. Sometimes, it was a disney movie but more often than not it was a documentary on flowers. I don't know how she got a hold of so many of them, but they were all beautiful. The way bees pollinate flowers, how flowers turn to fruit, how combinations of chemicals trigger different scents.

She had an obsession with flowers. The type didn't matter to her. The backyard of her house had a beautiful garden filled with colorful flowers.

We would watch the documentary in silence, an expression of utter glee on her face, her body tilting subconsciously towards the television. Once the movie was over she would just sit there for about a minute just staring at the ceiling with her eyes closed before getting up with a smile and tugging my arm. We would go into the kitchen and we'd eat whatever we could muster up, sometimes cereal straight out of the box and other times an egg omelets. We'd quickly clean up and walk upstairs to get ready for bed.

Mason, her brother, usually wasn't home, but once in a while there were those rare occasions when he'd be finishing some homework or he'd be getting ready to go out. I would lay in Marisa's room waiting for her. She would come out drying her wavy light brown hair grinning with her missing front teeth and jump into bed. That was usually when he'd come in if he was home. A light knock on the door. He'd quickly say hi to me, he'd kiss her goodnight, and leave. I'd tuck her into bed and she'd fall asleep too tired to bother listening to a bedtime story. That's usually when I'd sit by her rocking chair and listen to music until her parents came home around midnight. To me that was routine but that day was different. I was sick.

I hadn't gone to school and I had just woken. I thought that I would get better if I stayed home. I pulled out my phone from my pocket and dialed their number and told Mrs. Brandt I was too sick to take care of her.

Thinking back, I should have told mom. She would have offered to take care of Marisa. That would have been better.

I don't know the specifics. It's not that I didn't bother trying to figure it out because there were too many people willing to paint a picture of the events but because I prefer not knowing.

The babysitter of the night was Gloria. She had moved into town a year before. I guess she never made it obvious enough for people to notice but of course she rarely stepped out of her house. The few times I saw her around she seemed normal enough, maybe a little messy with wrinkled jeans and her hair tied in a messy bun, but to me she just seemed tired. No one knew she was a heroin addict. According to what I've heard they called up almost half the town but she was the only one who accepted the job on the spot.

I don't remember much except yelling at them about how stupid they had been for leaving Marisa with a stranger simply to go to work. A look of guilt flashed through their faces but it was already too late.

The next events are the ones, I truly tried to lock away. On a one dimensional scale regardless of feeling and details what happened that night was that the woman was drunk and had accidentally started a fire and scared she had run off leaving Marisa inside the house. The cause of her death was asphyxiation. The neighbor across the street noticed the smoke and called the police.

She had been sleeping on the second floor. The fire was on first floor. They didn't get her out on time.

The seeds in my hands slip through my fingertips.

This is the last hill, the steepest. I thread up my legs burning from exertion.

As I take the last step to the top I catch a glimpse. A dark bundle laying by her tombstone. Mason. I take off not caring that my legs can't keep up with the combination of gravity and slippery ground. My knees hit the cement at the last second. It hurts like hell.

I turn his body. My hands are shaking. He did it again.

"Mason, Mason." His eyes are closed. I place my hand over his chest but through the layers of clothing I can't feel anything. I quickly look down at his wrists. The etched lines are there scabbing, swirling, bulging, but there's no blood. He holds an empty bottle in hand.

What did you do this time? I lean against his chest. There's silence and then the lightest thump.

"Wake up." I shake him lightly. I'd call an ambulance but the look in his parents eyes. Their eyes are always so vacant. They've already given up on him.

They call him a delinquent because it is easier for everyone to blame it on him. He doesn't do much to prove them wrong. Smoking, drinking, stealing, getting into street fights. Everyone is just waiting for him to end up dead so they can carry on as if nothing had ever happened.

"Mason." He groans. I brush back his hair. He keeps his hair with side swept bangs and messy. His eyes open, he blinks once, twice, and then the familiar hateful look on his eyes. He hates me. It's a never ending circle of blame and guilt. His parents blame him for not watching over Marisa that day. I hate his parents for leaving her with that stranger and not caring for him, and he hates me for everything.

It wasn't always like this though. Up until last month, I would find him like this curled up by the tombstone holding a vodka bottle to his lips. I'd simply sit there not daring to speak. After a while, he'd crawl next to me and lean against my shoulder telling me in a slurred voice how nice I was for being there, he'd take a few more drinks. Then, he'd tell me how pretty I looked just sitting there like a doll, and then after a few more drinks he'd collapse falling asleep in my lap. We had a system. As messed up as it was, we had a system.

I'd come here every friday night not daring to break the habit and he'd be here. I'd wait for him to fall asleep before taking out my spoon and digging up little holes. I never moved much. I'd just dig holes and holes in shapes. A circle, a triangle, a square - all around us. The seeds in my pockets would grow heavy until I dropped each and every seed. Taking the empty bottle in his hand shifting I would lay him on the ground walk to the pond and fill up the bottle. I'd sprinkle the flowers mechanically counting each drop. By then it would around midnight and I'd gently shake his shoulder. He'd be so drunk but he'd stand up and we'd walk to his house. I would wait until he stumbled inside before walking down the street to my house.

But that was before. "Please go." His voice is slurred but I know he's not drunk - at least not only drunk, there's something else. He's warning me. His eyes are growing dark. My heart stills.

He hasn't ever hurt me but my blood is pumping with adrenaline. He gets up and that does it. I'm sprinting away from him swerving past his fingers. It's such a horrible place to hide in because everything is out there wide in the open.

"Lorie." It's the first time I've heard him say my name. I've gone haywire. I can't look back. No, I need to keep running. "I hate you." His voice is so cold, so deadly.

I look left and right. Where to go? Where? His heavy footsteps follow mine. The bruised skin on my knees stretches uncomfortably. I spot a tall statue. An angel with wings. The shadow behind it is dark. He won't see me there.

I keep close to the bushes hoping he won't see me. It's getting dark and he's drunk, his senses can't be on high alert. My heart is beating painfully against my chest. I take one short raspy breath before taking off running towards the statue. If I make it, then he might just not be able to find me and he'll leave me alone, but if I don't - whatever he wants to do to me is going to hurt. I've seen the scars on his wrists, they run deep.

"Hate you." I throw myself behind the statue wrapping my arms around my legs. My heart is beating crazy fast under my arms. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. I cover my mouth with my hand muffling my cries.

"Hate you so fucking much." This time his voice is quieter. He's giving up this fight to take on another, the worse one. I'm shaking and can't keep still.

Then there's that shrill sound of glass breaking. I know what comes like a black and white movie of images that flicker. The pieces fall to the ground. He's sitting there sobbing, angry and desperate. He holds the remains of the bottle in hand. The glass shimmers under the moonlight. He pulls up his sleeves pressing the bottle against his wrist. His skin already fragile with the skin just barely healing. The cut is too deep.

"Hate you so much!" His voice is close, too close. He's found me. I open my eyes. His eyes loom in front of me dilated and tear stained. His wrist is bloodied and he's staggering unable to keep himself standing. I get up trying to hold him upright because if he falls we'll both come crashing down. He's losing too much blood. Droplets fall to the ground like water staining the ground dark. He won't stand much longer. He's dying, fluttering past my fingers. It's happening so fast. I lean back against the statue letting him lean against me. My phone. I need my phone. "I hate you." His voice dimming like a light. "I love you you." His eyes flutters to an end.


Three tombstones lay next to each other with wild flowers growing all around.


Marisa Brandt

Mason Brandt

Lorie Alder

This is quite morbid but I think it captures the dark romance era that came with the emo, skinny jean wearing era. It's been sometime since this has been in my hard drive so I polished this while keeping to the original. Hope you like it (or at least become nostalgic) - I'm not sure.

Thank you for reading.