DEVAN GALLOWAY
“Did you get tired of me? Is that why you agreed to concede and die? That was so soon, don’t you think?”
Those are some of the few questions I’ve been asking my father, since I got to the cemetery.
All I’ve gotten so far is silent treatment.
Of course, that’s the only thing he can offer, and it’s the most painful part of all of this.
Having a one-sided conversation with my father is not enough.
I want him to get up and yell orders, encourage me, scold me, just anything.
This is one of the worst days of the year.
The only day I inwardly become an emotional mess, because I swore never to shed a tear.
The only day I find myself doing extraordinary things, such as being kind to random strangers.
It’s my father’s death anniversary.
It’s a sad day for me.
I’d kept myself busy the whole day, so I wouldn’t have to come to the cemetery, but I just couldn’t avoid it.
It’s the reason I’m standing before his headstone at midnight, with the memory of the tragic incident replaying in my head over and over again.
It feels like I’m reliving it, even though that was nine years ago.
I believe your twenties are supposed to be your years of fun, at the same time, when you build your future.
Well, that isn’t the case for me.
I’ve spent my twenties investigating my father’s death.
Some nights, I felt like congratulating the mastermind, because I’ve hit so many dead ends, until last year, when I finally got something useful.
“I promised to never give up, and I’m not going to do it now.
So, in case you want to give me the same lectures mum gives everyday, you should save your strength,” I say to my father, before I realize, “Oh, wait, that’s what you’ve been doing, because you’re resting.
Keep resting while I do the job.
Okay, old man?”
I sigh after a while of not getting a response.
But that was so therapeutic.
Talking out loud, alone, in the cemetery, at this time of the night.
It feels like I’ve let out whatever was making my chest heavy for the whole day, and now, I’ve proven it wasn’t this black jacket I’m wearing.
I’d rather have a one-sided conversation with my father, than say all those things to someone else.
Did I say I was alone in the cemetery?
I take that back.
As I walk away from my father’s headstone, I notice a figure sitting among the rest of the headstones.
I squint my eyes, strangely, to have a better look.
Maybe I’m seeing a ghost, or not.
If it’s a ghost, I should mind my business, and walk away, leaving the ghost to enjoy whatever it’s doing.
That’s the complete opposite of what I do.
The curiosity in me wins, especially when I notice it’s a woman, judging by the hair.
I start walking towards the headstone, and as I approach, I notice some movements from her.
She’s facing one of the headstones, dressed in black.
I get close, and that’s when I hear her voice.
I don’t understand the context of her words, but she’s probably crying to her loved one as she takes a bottle from beside her and gulps down whatever drink that is.
Turns out, I’m not the only weird one having one-sided conversations at this time of the night.
I watch for a short while, before I do the most unreasonable thing: clearing my throat to make known of my presence.
My actions make her jolt and I almost regret it.
Almost.
She’s now on her feet, holding the bottle.
She stares at me for a while before speaking up.
I assume she’s trying to gauge whether I’m real or a ghost.
Well, I was in the same position a few seconds ago, but her actions prove she’s not a ghost.
She’s in a long, black dress that doesn’t hide her curves.
I don’t catch a clear image of her, but what I’ve seen so far piques my interest.
“Are you a ghost?” She asks, pushing her head forward.
She might have been shocked at first, but right now, she looks so fearless.
It makes me want to tease her, just to test her limits.
Because, if I were a ghost, what would her next action be?
Would she want to chill with me?
Or she would run away, screaming.
On any other normal day, maybe it would have been fun scaring her.
Just maybe.
But today is special.
I don’t want drama.
“I’m not a ghost. Just a weird person, and I’m sure you can relate,” I end up saying.
“I’m not weird,” she counters.
“Really?” I ask with narrowed eyes.
“Then what do we call a person who visits the cemetery at midnight?” I probe.
“I didn’t visit the cemetery at midnight. I came here early enough. It’s midnight that had the guts to catch me here.”
I almost laugh out loud, but then, I realize she must be in a mood to argue.
“But seriously, what are you doing here alone, at this time of the night?” I shouldn’t be concerned, yet here I am, interrogating her like she’s my business.
“Do you know how dangerous this is?” I add.
“Oh, I know. So, are you going to kidnap me any time soon?” She asks, rendering me almost confused.
That can’t be a bottle of water in her hand.
There’s something strange about how fearless she now sounds.
It’s nothing close to bravery.
It’s either she’s had too much to drink or just tired of life that she doesn’t care about anything.
Maybe both?
“I’m not here to kidnap you,” I assure her.
“But you need to get out of this place. It’s late.”
“Oh,” she bursts out laughing, which gets me wondering what’s hilarious about my words.
“You’re using that trick, aren’t you?” She asks.
I raise my brows.
“What trick?”
“The one where you pretend to care, making me lower my guard, and that’s when you kidnap me. Gosh, men really have a talent of playing with me.”
What?
“I don’t need to use schemes to kidnap you, that’s a piece of cake,” I reveal.
“Then, what are you waiting for? Take me,” she snaps.
“Just take me already. I need to be far from home, where no one can find me.”
Her words are enough proof that my thoughts earlier were true.
She’s fed up with something.
Maybe she has trouble at home?
Asking myself so many questions won’t solve anything.
“Today is special to me. I don’t do bad deeds on this day. Any other day, I would have taken up your offer. Oddly, I’d love to drive you home.”
“I have my own car,” she mutters.
“But you’re not in a position to drive,” I point out, wondering in my head about what I’m doing.
I should be at home, maybe pulling an all nighter, or scheming a revenge plan.
Or looking for deals, yet here I am, asking someone to take my kindness.
May this incident never get leaked.
“Wait a minute,” the woman says, as though she suddenly remembered something.
“You said, today you don’t do bad deeds. So, do you kidnap people on normal days? Like tomorrow?”
I sigh before I answer her.
“As a matter of fact, yes,”
I punctuate my words by nodding listlessly.
“Who are you?” She asks.