Delilah
I stand before enormous iron gates, with crosses on top of each bars, set between two brick pillars covered in ivy, which stretches from the pillars along the entire length of the walls to the end as far, as my eye can see. The gate, locked at night and surrounded by a chain, with the golden initials „W" on one side of the gate and „C" on the other, now welcomes its „visitors" with an open lattice door and a gravel path covered with colorful leaves from walnut and chestnut trees lining the individual connecting dusty alleys. I shift from one foot to the other, a wind rises from the ground and lifts several pieces of colorful, decaying leaves into the air. It ruffles the strands of bright red hair peeking out from under my cap and blows open my knee-length canvas coat. A freezing chill descends on me, and I respond by pulling my coat tighter around my body in an attempt to maintain my body temperature. I stand in front of the gate for a full ten minutes, gathering my courage to enter the building, just as I have done every other Friday evening for the past two and a half years. I reach forward with my left hand and roll up my coat sleeve, glancing down at my wristwatch. It will be six o'clock in fifteen minutes and the gatekeeper will close the gate, so I have to make it back by then. I force myself to move and step forward with my left foot. I am accompanied by the sound of my heels clacking, finding bits of gravel among the fallen leaves, which crunch beneath them. With my head bowed to the ground, I proceed toward my destination, the route to which I have memorized over the years. I could manage it blindfolded. I don't like to look around here; the scenery of the whole place makes me feel too depressed in any weather and at any time of year. Even without the cold weather, I always get chills down my spine when I enter here, and the hairs on the back of my neck and arms stand on end. Even the magnificent view from the brick wall stretching around the entire building, down into the valley to the river, which is really worth seeing in the summer, cannot overcome my dark, depressing feelings about this gloomy, death-filled place.
Just before the end of the gravel road, I step onto the short-cut, muddy, trampled autumn grass. Muddy, thick mud immediately sticks to my boots. I can only reach the section I need to get to by following a path trodden by thousands of other visitors, who visit this place every day. Now, at this evening hour, however, I am the last guest here. The opening hours on weekdays are from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., but in the fall, when it gets dark early, the opening hours are shortened to 6 p.m., which I can just make it to from work on the other side of town. Warwick is on the other side of Rhode Island from Newport, across Narragansett Bay. The drive takes almost 45 minutes. From Newport, across Conanicut Island, back to the mainland to Warwick, not counting my ten-minute wait outside the gate before I decide to enter.
The section is lined with tall thujas, from which the remnants of cold raindrops from the recent rain fall on me, leaving gray clouds in the sky connected to the evening sky, between which stars slowly peek out. The thick darkness is pierced by the lights of street lamps, located at each section on the corner of the road, which come to life at six o'clock. I stop in front of my destination, look down, and tears run down my cheeks. Even after two and a half years, it still hurts, and it will never stop hurting. In time, I will learn to live with the pain, but even after all this time, that time has not yet come. The black, dark hole in my chest still gapes with emptiness, pain, and longing. The bouquet trembles in my hands, its petals falling off in the cold and shaking. I bend down and sit on my haunches, brushing away the creeping plant from the golden inscription decorating the stone. I replace the old, withered flowers with new ones, take a lighter and two candles out of my bag. I struggle for a moment with the wind, which keeps blowing out the lighter's flame, and I burn my thumb twice, when the cold wind causes the flame to change direction, but eventually I manage to light both candles and place them in the two lanterns decorating each side of the gravestone. I wipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. I clear the fallen leaves from the grave, but the wind blows again and causes the leaves of the creeping plant to cover the golden inscription. I reach out and pull the plant out by its roots. With frozen fingers, I run my hand over the golden inscription burned into my retina, reflecting a reality that is two and a half years old. The tombstone reads:
Jayden Soren
Beloved son, friend, and husband.
April 20, 1982 – September 15, 2017
Forever in our hearts.
„Hello my love. Here I am again." Salty tears fall from my chin onto the wet ground. „I don't have much time today, so I'll quickly summarize the news for you, like I do every two weeks." I sniffle and bite my lip. Where to start? „Actually, I don't have any news," something rustles behind me in the thicket of thuja trees. I hate cemeteries during the day, let alone at night. I feel a chill on my neck as if death itself had touched me, and my hair stands on end. I'll have to hurry today, I'm starting to feel uneasy. I feel like someone is watching me, their gaze burning into my head. I shiver. „Halloween is in two weeks, so I'll bring you a carved pumpkin. I know how much you loved that holiday." A branch snaps in the distance, my heart pounds and tries to escape my chest. I can't stay here any longer, it's time to let the dead sleep again. „I miss you so much, Jayden. I'll see you soon. I love you." I get up, look around, and try to see the cause of those eerie sounds carrying through the dark night in the shadows of the trees and thujas. During my time in the cemetery, a slowly thickening fog has rolled in. That's all I needed. „Sorry, I have to go," I say quickly and hurry along the well-trodden path through the grass back to the dusty road. On the way, my foot slips on the mud and my ankle bends unnaturally in my boots. „Ouch," I yelp. I limp towards the gate, where the gatekeeper is standing, ready to lock it for the night. I slow down to a leisurely pace, not wanting him to realize that I'm running away in fear. Even though that's the case. I say goodbye to him at the gate and pick up my pace again toward the parking lot, where the last two cars are parked. My blue Mini Cooper and a black Volkswagen Taigo, probably the gatekeeper's.
I take the keys out of my coat pocket, point my hand toward the car, and press the unlock button. There is a beeping sound and the front and rear lights flash. I close the driver's door behind me and try to insert the keys into the ignition, but my hands are shaking and the keys fall to the floor. „You've got to be kidding me," I curse. I bend down and grope around in the dark until I find them. I stand up and look out the front window at the cemetery shrouded in darkness. A terrible shock runs through my body and my heart stops for a second. I think I even scream. A raven is sitting on the hood of the car. I thought birds were long asleep in their nests at this time of night. It pecks at the glass with its beak just as I stand up with the keys in my hand, which fall to the floor again in shock. I grip the steering wheel tightly with both hands and catch my breath. I hate it here. Even as a little girl, I always found Warwick Cemetery the scariest place. I gather all my courage and, reluctantly, bend down to pick up the keys again, this time sitting up straight in the seat with caution. I insert them into the ignition and turn them, and the engine roars to life. I shift into first gear and press the gas pedal to the floor. I feel like a race car driver as the car peels away from the road with a screech of tires, and I head home, leaving the dark, spooky cemetery and its inhabitants behind me.
KILLING PAST