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"They're dead ... and it's my fault," I whispered to myself.

I'd been inside of the cemetery only once, days before. I hadn't wanted to go back, but since the day of the funeral, I hadn't been able to sleep. Going back to where I'd left them, covered by dirt, shut away in their caskets, might change that. I'd say what I had to and hope it would be enough as I left them behind again to continue on in their death as I would in my life.

At the wrought-iron gate that all cemeteries seemed to have in common, I paused to gaze in, a trespasser in their world, that of the dead. Everything, from the light fog that hovered just above the ground, to the shroud-like trees, enormous and misshapen, hiding perfectly what kept to the shadows, seemed different, changed from before. But then, they'd been buried in the daytime – and I hadn't been alone.

If given the choice, I'd leave – but I couldn't. I had to go ... I had a confession and it wouldn't wait – because the longer I waited, the longer they waited, and all of us had done that long enough.

Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I entered the graveyard through the broken, half-hinged gate, and started walking as if I knew exactly where I was headed. Soon I found myself surrounded by a fog grown thicker, and scarier, that covered the ground like a huge white sheet, making knowing where my step would be almost impossible. Moving through each darker shadow of each tall oak tree as I entered it, to a lighter shade of darkness as I emerged, I pushed aside the long tendrils of Spanish moss hanging in drapes from their branches, trying not to notice how much they looked like whitish-gray specters, eerie in that setting, especially with their subtle swaying in the nearly windless space. But, as spooky as the place was, it was the complete noiselessness of my footsteps that was the most frightening.

Still, I kept going. I didn't question the direction ... I'd trust my instincts.

Eventually I could see it ahead of me ... the spot where they'd been buried. I slowed as I approached it. Someone had dug a deep hole in the ground, an ugly scar in the lawn, and the two raised brown caskets rested side by side on a tall lift above it. It didn't seem odd, though. I knew they'd be there.

I gazed at them, the last beds my parents would ever know, partly in morbid fascination, but mostly with a sick sort of curiosity. They seemed to be waiting, either for me, or for their final descent into the earth, I couldn't be sure. I roughly swiped at the tears that started down my cheeks. I hated myself. Their death was my fault, and I'd gone there to tell them that. I wanted to scream, for their sake, and mine, that I loved them, and more than ever I wished things were different. But I was a coward and continued to stare wordlessly at them.

Finally, impatient with myself, I closed my eyes and tried to force myself to say something in the remaining moments I had left before they were lowered ... everything, my wishes and my guilt ... and then goodbye. My mouth opened ... but I didn't have the words. It was too much. I paused, and then started again in a whispered plea, "I'd willingly trade places with you, my self-imposed penance, if it meant you'd both come back and be whole again, not dead, but alive –"

A wind started, bringing with it a strange noise. I stopped to listen. Faint at first, I could swear ... voices – their voices, accusing me, "Ashe, you should've stopped us."

Faster, my tears spilled. Involuntary thoughts ... how gruesome a scene it must have been, and how terrifying, to have seen the truck as it came at them, and how much more frightened they'd be if they could see as they were being lowered into the ground and dirt fell down onto them. Overwhelmed, and feeling like I was dying inside, I slowly opened my eyes, and screamed as the lids flew open and my parents sat up and reached for me, crying out, "Stay!"

"NO!"

My eyes popped open. Trying to catch my breath, I looked around wildly, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming in through the partially opened lace curtains. I wiped my fingers over them as my confused mind tried to make sense of what had just happened. Then, I remembered ... the funeral was over and I was sitting upright in bed, not even really my bed, but one that would be mine until I moved out – and I'd had the recurring nightmare, the same one my mind constantly replayed since their death, and the one I hoped to someday forget. Impossible, though. To forget it would be the same as forgetting my parents, and I could never do that. Besides, I deserved it.

Another day in my new life was beginning in my new home, in my new town – but without them.

Restless, and not wanting to go back to sleep, mostly because of the bad dream than the late hour Aunt Karen and I had arrived at her house the night before, I got up and went over to where I'd left my tote next to the empty closet. I unzipped it and took out some jeans and a t-shirt, and carried them with me into the bathroom. Though there was ample sunshine, I switched on the bathroom light and walked to the sink to brush my teeth. I picked up my toothbrush and toothpaste I'd placed there the night before, took off the cap, and applied the paste to the bristles, but when I lifted my hand to brush my teeth – I stopped to stare into the mirror at the only things I had left of my parents.

For years, they'd jokingly argued which of them I looked most like, doing their best to bribe me to say it was one over the other, until I told them that, being seventeen, I was too old to play that game anymore. Though I didn't closely resemble either of them, I'd always secretly liked the comparison. But since their death, I'd avoided looking at myself. What I used to appreciate about my appearance changed after the night of their accident. I'd even put the only family photos I had in a box marked 'Miscellaneous' facedown so I wouldn't see them when I opened it again to retrieve the other items I'd also packed in there.

But gazing at my reflection for the first time in a week, there was no way to avoid my mother's eyes looking back at me – hazel in color and almond-shaped – and only slightly puffy from my restless night before. Because of long, black lashes and a slight pigmentation around my eyelids, wearing make-up had never been necessary. My hair, dark brunette like my father's, was shoulder-length and naturally curly, making it look styled, yet casual. While other girls I'd known at my old school used to complain about their hair being 'too flat' or 'kinked up' because of the weather, I'd never had that problem.

I placed my hands onto the marble sink for support, closed my eyes, and tried to quell my inner turmoil; an impossible thing to do. My mind was flooded with events I wanted to forget, and made me wish, over and over, I'd been more selfish.

On the night my parents were supposed to celebrate their anniversary, I'd come down with a fever. My mom had wanted to cancel their date, but I insisted she go, to the point of becoming belligerent with her. My father had more than just a dinner planned ... he'd arranged for a surprise renewal of their wedding vows, with an actual proposal, a preacher, and guests – and he'd proudly shown me the gold ring he'd bought for her, and where he'd had their initials inscribed on the inside. Though I'd never personally been in love, or even in 'deep like', with any of my past boyfriends, I thought it was nice.

The entire day, and into the night, she'd checked on me. Repeatedly, I reassured her that I'd be okay. Eventually, to my father's relief, and mine, she agreed to go. They left; Dad in his dark blue suit, and Mom in her pretty, knee-length ivory-colored dress.

The door closed. I finally had the house to myself.

I'd almost gone to sleep when the phone rang. Jarred by the sound, and thinking it was the first of many calls my mom would make to check on me, I was surprised to hear Aunt Karen's voice. It was faltering and I could hear that she was crying – there had been a car accident and she was on her way over.

I went downstairs to wait. Eventually the doorbell rang. I got up from where I'd been laying on the sofa, and went to open the front door.

Life as I knew it ... ended.

A few days later, I drove with my aunt to my parents' funeral. Everything seemed so unreal, and I felt odd, unearthly, like my feet weren't touching the ground as I got out of her car and went to where a small gathering of people stood gathered. They stared as we walked past, but I ignored them as I went to stand near my parents' caskets. Selfishly, I told myself to pretend it wasn't real because it would easier to handle, but then stopped myself. At my insistence, my parents went on their date ... and then had gotten killed. I deserved nothing of kindness, either self-imposed, or from others. It was my fault – and I'd face it. Doing anything else would be a lie.

The preacher had come over to say a few words to me and Aunt Karen, but I ignored him, too. What he had to say wasn't important. Eventually, he went to stand at the head of the caskets.

The funeral had started.

I shut out everything.

Finally, it ended. The mourners came to where the two of us stood to offer their polite condolences. But I stepped away and moved closer to the caskets, leaving it to my aunt to deal with them.

After everyone left, my aunt softly touched my arm. It was time to go. I didn't budge. My aunt, and probably everyone else, would think it was morbid, but I wanted to wait until the caskets were lowered. I wanted to witness and see – proof my parents were dead. It was my final goodbye and I refused to be robbed of it.

I heard as Aunt Karen walked away, headed back to her car. But as I remained there, waiting with dread for the actual burial to begin, someone came and stood to my left. It was a stranger, someone who hadn't been at the funeral. He said, "I'm sorry for your loss."

I moved a step to my right, away from him, and looked back at the caskets. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw as he held out his balled fist to me, palm down. I looked at him.

With a look of reverence, he said softly, "It's to show respect, miss."

Curious to know what he had in his hand, rose petals or some sort of religious symbol, I held out my open hand. He moved his over mine ... and put dirt into it.

Angry and insulted, I wanted to throw it back at him with the due 'respect' he deserved for suggesting such a thing, but hesitated when I saw the sincerity of his words in his eyes. He wasn't being cruel. He was there, thinking he was being helpful. With a slow nod, he said, "Gently miss, place it at their feet."

Wondering how putting dirt on someone was considered respectful, I extended my hand and opened it slowly – and watched as it flowed smoothly first onto my mother's casket, and then onto my father's, whispering an apology to them both for doing it, for being the one to finalize their sentence of death ... for making it real. When the last grain of sand fell from my palm, I wiped my hand off on my dress. Feeling like an empty drum, hollow and dead inside, I turned and walked away.

I got into my aunt's blue Lexus, shut the door, and stared out of the passenger window. As we exited the cemetery and drove away, I watched from the side mirror as everything familiar – my town, my childhood, and my parents – was left behind, and eventually disappeared from sight.

The drive from Branton to Mannix would be a couple of hours at least. But I'd have the time to think about things and try to come to terms with the fact that my fate was sealed. The idea of moving from the only home I'd even known to live with my aunt in Mannix was a terrible one, but with her being my dad's older sibling, and my only living relative, I'd had no choice.

After awhile of watching as buildings, cars, and people turned into a vague kaleidoscope of blobs and blurs as we drove past them, I felt my aunt's hand on mine. I slowly came out of my trance-like state to look over at her. Her eyes were wet from crying. "Honey, you can have the room opposite of mine and you can decorate it any way you want." She smiled, but it seemed forced. "You'll see. It won't be so bad."

I'd wanted to blame her, to scream at her that it was her opinion, and that she had no right to say that – that she didn't know what she was talking about ... she didn't know what I was feeling, or what I was thinking because she hardly knew me at all, and that I had no interest in her kind words or her pain. Her world hadn't been turned upside down like mine had ... she still had her house, her job, and her life. I no longer had any of that! Fighting to keep control over my emotions, as tattered as they were, so I wouldn't hurl those insults at her, I removed my hand from hers and went back to looking out the window. It was all too fast. It felt wrong. I resented how she'd swooped in and took over my life, and how she'd made fast work of calling movers to come and remove my things, and their things, before putting the house up for sale. Then the final blow came ... when she'd tried to rationalize my moving in with her by saying she and I was all that we had – just the two of us ... and that I'd have a home.

Mannix. At least Rhys would be there. He was my aunt's next-door neighbor and my best friend, my only friend, since I was six-years-old.

On one of our occasional trips to Mannix to visit my aunt, I'd brought my puppy, Buddy, along with me. I'd taken him out to play on her front porch, and soon a boy from the house next door wandered over, climbed the steps, and started to pet Buddy. Feeling territorial, I demanded to know his name and why he was there. With his eyes squinted against the sun and its light dancing across his blonde hair, he stated, "I'm Rhys. I like dogs."

Every visit after that, Rhys and I were inseparable – the best of friends. But when my aunt noticed, she'd make comments about how cute the two of us looked playing together, which embarrassed us both and always sent Rhys packing back home.

Finally, I begged my mom to make her stop and she promised she would.

The night of our last visit, just as my aunt started to make another one of her sappy comments about me and Rhys, my mom interrupted. "Ashe, I'll bet Brian will be happy to see you back home." With a small conspiratorial smile at me, she casually continued, "Ashe's boyfriend made the junior forward on the school's soccer team this year." Later, when we were away from the adults, I told Rhys I'd enlisted my mom's help and that's why she'd said what she had. We pinky swore to never divulge the secret, but when Rhys started making one bad impression after another of my aunt's look of surprise, we both laughed until we were out of breath.

Then, the trips to Mannix stopped and a year had passed. No real reason – just life had gotten in the way. But because of my circumstances, we wouldn't be just best friends – I'd be his next door neighbor, and he'd be my security blanket as I tried to pick up the parts of my broken life, and started at a new school. To hang out, all either of us would have to do was to cross our adjoining lawns – and, unlike when I was younger, being seventeen, I wouldn't have a problem setting the record straight with my aunt if she started with her match-making again.

A light tapping on the bedroom door brought me out of my thoughts. Turning from the bathroom mirror, I watched as the door gradually opened and my aunt's face slowly appeared from around it. "I thought I heard you. Are you okay?"

I nodded.

"Are you hungry?"

I shook my head.

Clearly at a loss for what to say or do next, she eventually said, "We came in late last night, so today you can rest. Tomorrow, you'll be going to school." When I still didn't respond, she stepped in. "Ashe, honey, I know this all must be strange, but I want you to feel at home ... and I hope you eventually will. Do you want to talk about your parents?"

"No. It won't change anything and it won't bring them back."

"Ashe ..."

I instantly shut her out. I didn't want to hear her say anything kind to ease my sorrow. I didn't deserve it and my guilt wouldn't allow it. Exiting the bathroom to put my pj's at the foot of my bed, I glanced to where I'd left the black cotton mourning dress in a heap on the floor. Maybe it was to reaffirm to myself that I was right and she was wrong, but whatever the reason I'd chosen that particular moment to revisit my guilt, I was glad to hear the ring of the doorbell downstairs. It would prevent any more discussion over something I'd rather not talk about – at least temporarily.

With a look of reluctant defeat, my aunt left the bedroom and started downstairs.

I looked at the alarm clock on top of the nightstand. It was eight o'clock. Rhys would be on his way to school. But curious to know if he'd stopped by anyways, I headed down the stairs behind her, planting one foot solidly onto each step before taking the next. I'd nearly reached the bottom of the stairwell when my aunt opened the door. "Hi, Rhys honey. Ashe is on her way down." She turned and looked at me sadly before leaving in the direction of the kitchen.

Walking to the door, I could feel the heat and humidity from the outside, typical weather for South Carolina most of the year, even when it rained. Nighttime could be as bad; while not as hot, it could still be uncomfortable, and in some places, mostly in the more remote and swampy areas, fog would form just above the ground, making them appear spooky.

I stopped at the doorway.

Wearing his usual jeans and polo shirt, Rhys said softly, "Hey, Ashe."

Until that moment, I thought I could handle seeing him, but his expression – uncertainty mixed with sympathy, and questions he probably didn't know he had, was almost more than I could bear. I couldn't even offer a small smile to soothe his discomfort. Instead, I looked at how his blonde hair glistened in the sunlight – a reminder, a silent mockery, that life went on without any regard for the dead, and I felt my anger growing. But I quickly reminded myself that Rhys wasn't to blame. My pain wasn't his, nor was it anyone else's. At least he'd made the effort to come by. If it was left up to me, I'd just ... disappear.

"Sorry I didn't come over last night. I saw you pulling in ... but it was late." He paused and then, sounding as if he was struggling to sound normal, he continued, "I stopped by to see if you were going to school."

"I'm ... no. Tomorrow I will." It was contagious, his being awkward with me. Suddenly it felt strange ... talking to him, but not really saying anything. We looked at each other wordlessly until Rhys finally said, "I'll see you later then."

"I'll be here."

He went down the porch steps and started over to his car, an old brown Nova.

From behind me, I could hear my aunt moving about in the kitchen. Wishing I could leave too, only not for school, I closed the door and turned. Being gone so often for work, my aunt had never really decorated her house and it looked practically new. A mirror and decorative table near the front door, a sofa with a table and portable telephone behind it, a TV stand with a television, shelving with a stereo and CD's, a few mounted pictures, and a small kitchen table with chairs tucked neatly underneath, all made up a tidy house.

Ignoring my reflection in the mirror as I passed by, I headed back up the stairs to my

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