“I’m sorry, I… I just need a minute alone.”
Her wife was on the verge of tears, so it wasn’t too hard to guess why.
“I’ll be walking around if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as she got out of away, the Journalist could hear her wife bawling. She never heard her do that before. The Journalist never knew how much death could change people.
The Journalist had never actually been to a cemetery before. Both of her parents had been cremated, and you only needed a picture of the victim’s body. She thought they were pointless anyway, a waste of money for someone who’s never going to see it. As she was walking, the Journalist passed someone on a bench, sitting right across from a simple gravestone. They looked familiar.
Under her breath, the Journalist exclaimed, “Oh shit.”
It was the unforgettable burns and patches of Ms. Ghoul, and she looked particularly unhappy. And she was looking right at the Journalist.
Cracking a smile, Ms. Ghoul asked, “How’re the burns.”
Quick to answer, “Just fine. Just fine.”
The Journalist had to look away for a breather. That’s when she noticed what was one the gravestone.
Here lies Torres James Ghoul
1982-2003
Son of Cinderella Ghoul and Alonza De Ira
Rest In Peace
“He died in a car crash. I was in the car with him when it happened.”
Ghoul referred to the burns on her face.
“That’s how all this happened. So,” Ghoul looked the Journalist dead in the eye. “That enough for you?”
She didn’t even know what to do. How do you even respond to that? No, all she could do was stand speechlessly, hoping to god her wife would come to the rescue. But that wouldn’t happen for another hour. So, she took the risk, and sat next to Ms. Ghoul.
“How old was he?”
“Not good at math, are ya?”
“He was 21. Thankfully, it wasn’t on his birthday. That would’ve made this a lot harder.”
Ms. Ghoul was tearing up.
“He always played with his stupid band in the bar. They were so bad.”
Ms. Ghoul was crying softly.
“Oh god.”
Ms. Ghoul was sobbing.
9