the forgotten graves

She sat alone under the wilting tree, its once bright green leaves turning brown and yellow, losing grip on the branches as it made its way down to the supple soil its roots came from. In front of her was a concrete stone, shielding the dead from her sunken, empty eyes. The concrete had a few simple words on it. Sarah Hensen, 1880–1918, was a loving mother and wife. The pitch-black gown tumbled over her bruised, shaking knees as they knocked together. The cold breeze wiped away the last of her tears yet she felt numb on the cold wooden bench. There were bodies all around her, but hers was the only one with a beating heart. 

Slowly, she rose from her seat, the bones of her knees cracking at the pressure. The weight of her bleeding, bruised heart was suffocating as she turned away from the setting sun. eyes cast down, she numbly moves one foot forward, one step farther away from the body that she just buried. The silence was welcoming as she kept her eyes squinted in the harsh winds. The neat bun she had done a few hours prior was slowly coming undone, a few pieces whipping into her eyes as they escaped from under her hat. She didn't know if the water dripping down her face was from the hair in her eyes or the blood dripping from her heart in her eyes. Slowly, she walked on the main road, her dress covering her body and the black veiling the dirt and stains. Her wide-brimmed hat had a black veil attached to it, obscuring her face from onlookers as she robotically made her way to the train station. Her pale, torn-up fingers, covered by the black satin gloves, clutched the handle of her purse, the purse that her mother had sown her for her 16th birthday. Despite the walk lasting five minutes, exhaustion weighed on her shoulders. It was dark by now, and the bustle of people had slowed down. She sat alone on the benches, waiting for a train that would never come.

--

A hand shook her shoulder, startling her awake. Her veil had been shifted in her slumber, and her dead eyes blinked open as she met the face of a young man. There was concern flooding his bright eyes. The morning sun was reflecting light into his irises. Messy, curly hair fell like a soft halo around his head and he held a hand out at the breathing corpse. That's what she felt like. 

A living, breathing corpse. 

“Uhm, are you alright?” The man's voice had a tinge of worry as he leaned back, standing up straight. She slowly and gracefully stood. 

“Sorry to worry. I'll be on my way now.” Fixing her veil, she walked back towards the way she came. Her own voice sounded dead in her ears. What happened? She remembered the red as she covered herself in the black dress. The cracking of glass against her pale, torn skin. The screams echoing in her ear as she ate her own mother's heart. The cracking silence as she watched her mother's body be lowered below the dirt. She laid her corpse to rest but is she truly deceased? She sat back down on the bench in front of the plot of land where her mother lay. She pulled her hat off her head, placing it gently beside her, her gloved hands lacing on her lap. The wind was merciless against her pale skin, pushing her messy, tangled hair out of her face. The sun shone brightly on the horizon, lighting up the dark with soft glows of orange and yellow. The sound of footsteps interrupted her silence as a tall man dressed in a black suit walked towards her. He walked toward her, the brim of his top hat covering his face, but she could not help but think he was young. 

“May I have a seat?” he towered over her, looking into her empty eyes. She lifts her hat off the bench, making room for him. Wordlessly, he settled down beside her, his eyes trained on the grave.

“Did you know the deceased?” A few seconds passed and he turned his eyes to her. His stormy gray eyes unraveled her very soul, leaving her bare in his sharp gaze.

“My mother” was all she uttered. Her voice was ruined and scratchy. He nodded his head and continued to look at her side profile. The smooth, sharp line of her nose, the fullness of her chapped pink lips, and her long, dark lashes that brushed against her high cheekbones at every slow blink. 

She looks just like her mother.

“How did you know her?” slowly, she turned her gaze to the man beside her. 

“Well… I didn't personally know her. She hired me, if you will,” the man vaguely explained with a flick of his wrist in the air. She hummed softly. 

“I don't think I've ever seen you around,” she says cautiously. 

“I suppose it would be bad if you noticed me, no?” he looked into her eyes again, a chill running down her back. She kept her composure, ignoring the goosebumps rising on her skin and the cold feeling icing her veins. 

“What did my mother hire you for?” she elegantly raised an eyebrow, tilting her head questioningly. 

“I would advise you to ask your mother,” he gestured to the grave, “but that's not quite possible as of now. ” he stood up, towering over her once again. His shadow blocked her eyes from the sun as she gazed up at him with suspicion, drawing her features together. 

“I hope to see you soon, Ms. Hensen.” With a tip of his head, he walked off, leaving her alone, the sun shining directly on her face. She looked up at the dead branches of the tree next to her, dead leaves traveling to the ground with each gust of wind. 

The tree will lose all of its leaves soon.

--

The house was as cold as it was dark. The only color in the dark, bland room was the single brown noose hanging from the ceiling. It has been 7 days since her mother was buried. One week in the bleak, empty house. 168 hours with the lights off, staring at the dark ceiling. Her mother, a strange gothic woman, had the house decorated all black.

Black walls, black furniture, and black-tinted lamps. Black was light compared to the darkness that took place in the house. The bruises on her skin had long disappeared, yet the pain was fresh as she pressed on the place where they would be. The scars that adorned her skin like jewelry burned when exposed. Stepping down from the stool, she slowly walked towards the window she was facing. Pulling up the black-out curtains, the light sun bled into the room. The light pinks and purples of the sunset illuminated the dark room in gentle color. She stared out into the dirty streets, some of the lamps slowly turning on. People were walking on both sides. 

She sat there until the room was filled with the soft white glow of the moon. The streets are now empty, and the artificial lights are fully on. She sat up, her muscles tensing at the movements as she climbed back on the stool. Gently looping the noose through her neck, she smiled to herself, staring at the mirror in front of her. Her eyes, usually dark, were lighter from the moon shining at her. Frail fingers tighten the noose as her legs tremble on the stool. She looked at herself as one would when putting on a diamond necklace. Maybe this was worth just as much as a diamond necklace. 

With a gentle nudge of her foot, her body snapped against the rope. She watched as the color drained from her pale face, blood and saliva bubbling at the corners of her mouth. With one last glance at the moon, she closed her eyes. 

--

A tall man stood in front of two graves. One freshly dug up, the other recent, yet lived in. his top hat was held firmly in his hand as he read the graves. Silvia Hennsen, the forgotten girl, 1900–1918. Sara Henson was a loving mother and wife from 1880–1918. Mother and daughter are buried right beside each other. 

How beautiful. He thought and he kneeled down, placing flowers on her grave. 

“I know what you did to your mother, Silvia, yet I do not blame you. I also know what your mother did to you. May the blood be washed from your hands as you both atone for your sins, wherever you end up. I wish you peace, my dear Silvia.” the private investigator stepped back, securing his hat back on his head. He walked away from the graves, never to return again.