Chapter 1

I close my eyes and listen to the breeze rustling through the trees. Opening them, I watch the fallen leaves dance waywardly between rows of dead bark – the gravel road capturing a departed leaf every now and then. I blow out a cloud of smoke, and once again regret putting the poison in my lungs. Doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure I’m dying young, anyway. I shouldn’t think that way, but I know there’s something inside of me, eating away at my organs. Maybe I’m just insane.

Looking to my right, my eyes scan over the graves until one sparks my interest.

Justin J. O’Leary, Oct. 14 th , 1985 – February 25 th , 2004.

He was nineteen when he died. Reaching into my pocket, I type his name into the search bar with “obituary” behind it. I read over the mediocre obit as I sigh. Boring . I prefer the interesting obituaries. The ones with character. Like the guy that wrote his own, claiming that he was Spiderman, or the woman who told all her loved ones to “go fuck themselves,” which I was surprised to find in the records, asterisk and all.

“What do you do for fun?” Men, prospective lovers, ask me constantly. Instead of the truth, I answer with the typical, mundane response. “Oh, I love live shows. Music is great. I enjoy museums and long walks on the beach.” It’s always the same.

And couldn’t be further from the truth. My life is strange, and I try and keep all the strange bits to myself. I’ve always been odd, so maybe it’s how I cope. Lying about everything that I am, for fear that I’ll be the cliché weird girl who’s too skinny and wears too much black. My eyes are the only bright things about me. They’re the only reminders that there’s some life in this shell I’ve become.

I cough before snuffing the cigarette out onto the bottom of my shoe. Standing, I grab my bag and my rubbing kit before making it back to my car.

My eyes scan the empty rows between graves, and I shrug. It would be nice to one day see someone out here, like me, taking amateur photos of epitaphs and googling obituaries. That person would be my soulmate, friend or otherwise. Somebody I’ve been waiting my entire life to meet since I was the little girl playing in the cemetery next door to my childhood home. All the other kids were afraid to venture into “The Land of the Dead” with me, but it was there that I found my “normal.”

Today, I had to come to this cemetery, which isn’t one of my favorites, because there was a funeral being held at Old Oak. This one has small, older plots, but they’re surrounded with newer graves. I always appreciate the older, more weathered ones. They have a story to tell, and without most of those obituaries being available, I always get to guess.

How did they die? Who did they leave behind? Was this life worth it, for them?

Those are also the graves that have been forgotten over the years, each generation caring less and less. There are never any flowers, which is why I always take a dozen fresh roses with me on each trip.

Nobody deserves to be forgotten.

I place my last rose on a baby’s tombstone before kneeling and snapping a picture with my camera. The statue of an angel has collected moss in the grooves where the letters are formed. Charlie has been here since the 1800s, and I sit on the grass and stare at the old, wooden block that sits on his grave. I reach out and gently run a finger along the “C,” wondering who left it there.

A drop of rain lands on my cheek, and before I even have a chance to stand, the clouds have given way. Sheets of rain fall over the cemetery, but I don’t move. I stay, with Charlie, and allow the rain to wake up my pale skin. It’s cold, but I don’t care. The dirt, the graves, “Charlie who wasn’t forgotten” – it all makes me feel alive. Charlie doesn’t want anything from me. He’s just happy that I came to visit.

Odd jobs.

That’s my life. One, big, odd job. I can’t stand consistency, so the typical nine to five isn’t for me. Today, I’m walking dogs. The sun is way too bright. Well, too bright for me. I can feel my alabaster skin burning through the five layers of sunscreen I put on earlier. Of course, relying on classifieds means that I’m living paycheck to paycheck, but I’m getting by. That’s all that matters to me.

Yesterday, it was filing an old man’s paperwork alphabetically. The day before that, it was painting a porch and a fence. Tomorrow, I have no idea what it’ll be. If I’m going to be on this planet, it may as well be interesting.

“Emily! Hey, Emily!”

Turning, I see Royce running up to me. He looks even skinnier than he did last time I saw him, and that was only one week ago.

“You buying this week, or what? I’ve been hanging onto an eighth for you.”

I shrug. “Won’t have any cash until I’m done with this job. Want to stop by later, maybe smoke a bowl, and I’ll have it for you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. Still at the same place?”

I nod slowly, “I’ve been there for the past four years, Royce.”

“Right,” He says, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket as he nods haltingly.

“Okay, then,” I say, turning and walking away from the acquaintance from high school that became my drug dealer.

This town was already trash before, but it only got worse due to the influx of drugs. Hard drugs. I’m typically in a euphoric, pot induced state, where the world is quieter, maybe a little calmer – but it’s all about perspective. If my mind is quiet, I’m okay. When it gets too loud, it’s hard to escape. So, really, I can’t blame the junkies.

We all have to get by somehow.

“Have you seriously considered the turmoil that this country is in? I mean, scandals, and hate. I hate being here, man.” Royce says breathlessly as he paces back and forth in my living room.

I feel his eyes land on me as I take another hit of the bowl. I’m right there with you, man. This fucking earth is falling apart. What’s the point anymore? But, I don’t say a word. It’s pointless, and besides, all the bullshit spirals down from something much more powerful than a “concerned citizen.” Political banter is nothing more than wasted breath. I used to care. I used to care a lot, especially because this town looks like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie, and no “leader” is planning on doing anything about it.

“Anyway,” he says, changing the subject when I don’t bite the bait. “You come up with any new stuff? When are you playing again?”

Labyrinth, my grey tabby cat, rubs her side along my arm as I hit the bowl again and shake my head as I hold the smoke in. “I need to kick you out in a bit.”

“Creative juices flowing?” He asks, kneeling beside me and placing a hand on my leg. My eyes dart to his hand, and he quickly retracts it. We fucked, once. That doesn’t give him the right to touch me, and he knows it judging by the apology in his eyes.

“Play me one song and I won’t charge you for the green.”

I scoff, nearly snorting as I take another hit. I don’t need handouts, and I don’t feel like playing this junkie a song. Not now, at least. That’s how we ended up fucking in the first place. Dote on an artist’s work, and she’ll repay you. Especially when she’s cheap, like me - feeding off compliments.

Royce is a ghost, fucked up like most of the other men I’ve been with. I had one good thing, and he died right along with my heart. Now it’s black and unforgiving after he left me here, alone. The space between my legs has become a void. I stopped caring who I let inside, because I’m rotten, anyway. I can’t feel it anymore, in fact, I feel myself floating away every single time I’m with a man, and it’s always the same cancer that I go back to time and time again. The familiar ones. It’s like a buffet of dicks. The same dicks I’ve let inside of me my entire life, and tonight, it isn’t Royce that I want.

I nod to the door, and he sighs, dragging his feet to the exit. I don’t bother looking toward him, or saying goodbye. Like most men, he’s in love with the idea of me.

I’m unique . I’m sexy . I’m unlike any woman they’ve ever met . But I’ve learned that curiosity isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Nathan was the only one that cared to look past my face, or what exists between my legs. The rest don’t go any deeper, because they’re afraid to. I can’t really blame them. I don’t understand myself, and I’m not sure I ever will.

The door closes behind Royce, and I pick up my phone. The sickness rises in my stomach when I think of calling him, but it’s quickly replaced with a tingling feeling in my womb as my pussy contracts. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I hit dial.

“Kitten,” the groggy voice says on the other end of the line, sending a chill down my spine. “What is it, baby?”

I want to vomit, but this goddamn obsession that I have for this man controls my every action, and every word. Why would I turn to the man that’s abused me time and time again? The answer is simple, really. I don’t have Nathan here anymore to protect me from myself - most importantly, from the skeletons in my closet.