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He walked down the foggy parkway with the dim street lamps in the evening. His head was down and his hands were nested in his black leather jacket. The trees were jagged and dying and the mist had enshrouded every inch of his path. However, his vision was never so clear as when he approached the cemetery. The haven for the dead was the only place which the fog did not envelop.
As he crossed the gate, images of his dreadful life flashed behind his eyes like spasmodic epileptic episodes. His memories were his portal to hell.
Flicker.
A fan spun on the ceiling with his father dangling from it with his tie. He twitched a little like a dying fish on a hook.
Flicker.
At six, he discovered his stepfather striking his mother across the face and kicked the bastard in the testicles. As a reward, he got a cane to the face.
Flicker.
A week later, he woke up to the creaking roar of an engine starting in winter. When he opened the front door the drop-top had a back-seat filled with luggage. Mother and stepfather were up front and the man started the car. As the car pulled away, the adults laughed and tears streamed down his face.
Flicker.
Three weeks ago his girlfriend, the only human being on earth who loved him, kissed him goodbye. On the same night, two hours later, the police showed him photos of the car accident. She had no seatbelt on. Her head hung out of the windshield and a piece of brain was exposed. After this night, he lost his ability to cry.
Flicker.
This morning his boss yelled at him for thirty minutes, telling him how worthless he is. As his boss told him how atrocious his work ethic was, he gave off a blank stare. The superior threw a pen at his face to illicit some resemblance of a response. Emotionless, he rose from his cubicle, punched his supervisor in the face, and left.
He looked up and gazed upon an open grave a couple of yards away. Not knowing why, he followed a feeling of allurement toward it. He began to march toward the grave. After a couple of steps, he paused in a response of shock.
Out of the grave rose a figure of an index finger in the mold of white mist. The finger curled back three times, beckoning him. He complied without hesitation. When he stopped at the foot of the grave, the mist took the shape of a curvy female. Shadows danced in her eye sockets. He got lost in that entrancing vortex of darkness. To him, she was beautiful.
She placed her hand on his cheek. Her touch was as cold as his broken heart. He found this to be as inviting as an icy drink of water on a blistering summer's day. “You're not afraid of me, are you?” asked The Mist Lady. He shook his head and she responded with a passionate kiss that was as cool as a Massachusetts Bay wind on a December evening. He felt something for the first time in weeks as he embraced her. “I thought not. In fact, you've been waiting for me for almost a month,” she stated as their lips parted. A tear dripped down his face.
“Come with me. Spend eternity in my arms,” she whispered. He smiled for the first time in his life as he followed The Mist Lady into the grave and the hole sealed.
About the Creator
Kourtney Risher
I'm a poet and an aspiring novelist from El Dorado, AR.
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