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Authors: Jamie Mayfield
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described the statue as a marble angel with a lamb at her feet. His friend’s parents had chosen to bury her in the children’s section. Maybe they wanted to maintain her innocence, or it could have just been that the plots were smaller and less expensive in this section. Whatever the reason, she was there, somewhere to the right of the statue.
The cemetery was silent, almost eerily so, considering it was a nice summer Saturday afternoon. The only sound to be heard was that of a mower in the distance. Grass seemed to stretch on for miles around him, but for all its airy solitude, the place made him feel claustrophobic—almost as if there should be a grave there for him, like his grave was calling for him. He should be buried there, right alongside Juliette under the granite eyes of God’s chosen messenger. Sometimes it felt like he had joined her, suffocating, trapped inside his own head.
Balling his hands into fists, he forced himself to take slow, measured steps toward the grave, his breaths coming in quick, sharp pants. Goddamn it, he couldn’t go to pieces. He wanted to do it, needed to do it, needed to see what he could get out of this physical reminder of his own fleeting mortality—maybe it would make him want to live again. Being careful not to step on the graves of other poor dead children, he followed the dates of death marked on the headstones, year by year, until he saw her name.
JULIETTE ANNE MARTIN
AUGUST 14, 1991—OCTOBER 9, 2008
BELOVED DAUGHTER
There were no bears or blocks or even angels, as he had seen on the other headstones while he had looked for hers. It was dark gray, marble, and very elegant. His legs buckled when he realized that his friend, his Juliette, lay dead at his feet, and he landed hard on the soft earth next to her. The forgotten flowers fell to the ground, and dry heaves racked his body. He wouldn’t cry; he knew that. He’d been unable to cry since that night. Just as he couldn’t stand to be touched, he was also not allowed the small measure of relief crying would have afforded him.
It took a long time for him to finally get himself together. Remembering the flowers, he moved them to the grass just below the marble marker he could no longer bring himself to look at. Aaron considered just standing up and going back to the car, having done what he came here to do unassisted. Glancing over his shoulder, Aaron noticed he couldn’t see his mother’s car from there, and he wondered if she was starting to worry.
“J-Juliette, it’s… it’s Aaron,” he whispered, feeling fairly stupid for addressing the flowers and a patch of freshly mown grass. Running his fingers gently along the prickly surface of the short green lawn, he felt a mild breeze pick up and caress his face. He wondered in that moment if maybe she could hear him but shook the thought off as a silly superstition. Nevertheless, he continued to whisper to his friend.
“It’s been so hard, Juliette. The way everyone treats me, like I’m a bomb just waiting to go off,” Aaron said, his voice trembling as he knelt on the cool, damp grass. “The memories, the flashbacks. I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. The doctors don’t help. The pills don’t help. As selfish as it sounds, I wish you were here, Juliette. God, I feel so alone, so scared all the time. I don’t know if you would have wanted to live, just like I don’t know if I do, but it would be so much easier to have someone that understood.” His chest ached as he continued to caress the grass with his outstretched hand, talking to the ghost of his lost friend. He had no idea if she could hear him, if anyone could hear him. Talking about it just made it all worse. The self-hatred he felt, the feelings he tried to keep contained, burned like acid on his tongue as he spoke about them.
Summoning all the strength he had left, he forced down the self-loathing and the thoughts of suicide, back into the place where he kept them locked
The cemetery was silent, almost eerily so, considering it was a nice summer Saturday afternoon. The only sound to be heard was that of a mower in the distance. Grass seemed to stretch on for miles around him, but for all its airy solitude, the place made him feel claustrophobic—almost as if there should be a grave there for him, like his grave was calling for him. He should be buried there, right alongside Juliette under the granite eyes of God’s chosen messenger. Sometimes it felt like he had joined her, suffocating, trapped inside his own head.
Balling his hands into fists, he forced himself to take slow, measured steps toward the grave, his breaths coming in quick, sharp pants. Goddamn it, he couldn’t go to pieces. He wanted to do it, needed to do it, needed to see what he could get out of this physical reminder of his own fleeting mortality—maybe it would make him want to live again. Being careful not to step on the graves of other poor dead children, he followed the dates of death marked on the headstones, year by year, until he saw her name.
JULIETTE ANNE MARTIN
AUGUST 14, 1991—OCTOBER 9, 2008
BELOVED DAUGHTER
There were no bears or blocks or even angels, as he had seen on the other headstones while he had looked for hers. It was dark gray, marble, and very elegant. His legs buckled when he realized that his friend, his Juliette, lay dead at his feet, and he landed hard on the soft earth next to her. The forgotten flowers fell to the ground, and dry heaves racked his body. He wouldn’t cry; he knew that. He’d been unable to cry since that night. Just as he couldn’t stand to be touched, he was also not allowed the small measure of relief crying would have afforded him.
It took a long time for him to finally get himself together. Remembering the flowers, he moved them to the grass just below the marble marker he could no longer bring himself to look at. Aaron considered just standing up and going back to the car, having done what he came here to do unassisted. Glancing over his shoulder, Aaron noticed he couldn’t see his mother’s car from there, and he wondered if she was starting to worry.
“J-Juliette, it’s… it’s Aaron,” he whispered, feeling fairly stupid for addressing the flowers and a patch of freshly mown grass. Running his fingers gently along the prickly surface of the short green lawn, he felt a mild breeze pick up and caress his face. He wondered in that moment if maybe she could hear him but shook the thought off as a silly superstition. Nevertheless, he continued to whisper to his friend.
“It’s been so hard, Juliette. The way everyone treats me, like I’m a bomb just waiting to go off,” Aaron said, his voice trembling as he knelt on the cool, damp grass. “The memories, the flashbacks. I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. The doctors don’t help. The pills don’t help. As selfish as it sounds, I wish you were here, Juliette. God, I feel so alone, so scared all the time. I don’t know if you would have wanted to live, just like I don’t know if I do, but it would be so much easier to have someone that understood.” His chest ached as he continued to caress the grass with his outstretched hand, talking to the ghost of his lost friend. He had no idea if she could hear him, if anyone could hear him. Talking about it just made it all worse. The self-hatred he felt, the feelings he tried to keep contained, burned like acid on his tongue as he spoke about them.
Summoning all the strength he had left, he forced down the self-loathing and the thoughts of suicide, back into the place where he kept them locked
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