I look upon the gravestone, and I sit 6 feet above my family, each given their own cobalt stone with their own name engraved in it. Twelve gravestones total, and I know when I die there will be thirteen. The keeper will look upon us, as I do now, and think "That's the famed Grayson family, all thirteen of them." Or maybe he'll say "Almost all of them did great things. Everyone but the last one, of course." The pressure is always bulding on my shoulders, and I think that before I can do anything, I might die from the heavy weight I would have collected over the years. I imagine my shoulders would slope dramatically, and nobody but me would know why. My head would hang lower, and my feet would lag. My voice would become quiet,and it would stumle more often and mix words. Would wrinlkes come quicker? Would all of my observations of my crumbling being distract me from doing anyhthing important? I think about this as death looms around me, its invisible tentacles squirming towards me, just waiting to squeeze the life out me like a boa constrictor would do to its prey, slowly shutting its eyes, knowing its fate.
"Flora? It's time for us to go." I look up, and see the coldness in my caretaker's pale blue eyes. A small sigh escapes my lips as I stand up and start to walk beside my caretaker.
"Mrs. Moore? What happens when we die?" We walk by a large gravestone, it claiming Sandra Dietrey was an ambitious and courtious leader. I knew her. She wasn't any of those things.
"Well, Flora, nobody but the dead know that." Her brisk strides are hard to catch up to. I can hear the crunch of the dying grass beneath our feet.
"So my father would know?" Her walking slows, so I take that chance to get beside her, to see her face. It is as dark and grey as the sky is now. I shrunk back a little, wondering if my question upset her.
"Your father was a wonderful man. His remarkable acts shall carry his name forever." That's all she says. I don't know why everyone does that whenever I mention my family. They never answer my question, they just say nice things about them and comfort me. It doesn't makes sense, I already know they're dead and no matter how much they try to fake smile and play it off, it doesn't change the fact that I know the truth. I never comment on it though.
"I see." My mouth stays closed the rest of the way. At the gates, the groundskeeper is sitting on a bench with his son, Christopher. He is a year older than me, and I only know about him because his mother was friends with my parents. They look over and smile politely. I smiled back, but Mrs. Moore just stares straight at the carriage only a few yards away. I look back at the graves and the old oak tree protecting them.
For some reason, a horrifying fear suddenly takes hold of my heart. I'm terrified of the graves, the grass, and the gates. I'm terrified of the grounds keeper and his son, Mrs. Moore, and of where the carriage will take me. I'm terrified of death, of its tentacles already gripping me, of the slipping life I have been assigned to make something of. But what scares me the most is the plan hatching in my brain. The plan I know will make me bigger and more important than my ancestors. I'm frightened because it's bad. It's bad and evil. It takes advantage of everything given to me. And for this second I know I will carry it out, make the world mine-
A loud and staggered gasp fills the silence, and shatters my longing to fulfill my plan. My horror of my dark side causes me to stumble to the ground on my hands and knees, in puddles of water I did not realize were there. A single cough comes out, followed by drops of the blood that made me think so harshly. Suddenly a coughing fit spills forth from me, and I can feel multiple hands on me. I am lifted into someone's arms, and I look up to see it's Christopher. Blood splatters all over my hands and dress, and a little on Christopher's white shirt. Everything is a little dim, and the darkness of the carriage doesn't help. I'm gently lowered onto the leather seats, and I can faintly see Mrs. Moore's figure close the carriage door and sit on the seat across from me. She's muttering about how she should have noticed something earlier. I want to say it wasn't her fault, but my throat is so raw it comes out as a small groan. She leans over to me and smoothes out my damp hair.
"It's okay," she murmers. "everything will be fine." I know she's only trying to comfort me. But the truth is, depite how how much I try to ignore it, death always has a hand on me, and I know I will never win. Because I know deep in my heart that no matter what I do to become important like my family, all I will ever be known for is my disease.
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