Amber Jubilee
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| Photo: Shutterstock |
Orange lights are all I see. The wind seems to speak louder than my actions, but that won't make a damned difference to my pal who's six feet underground. The thought no longer counts when you're dead. Hell, I don't think anything counts once you're in a casket in the dirt. Still, the chrysanthemum I'm holding will make his grave a little prettier in the shadowy quiet. Hopefully.
Damien was my friend. You wouldn't be able to tell though. Always fighting, that one; even if he knew he wouldn't win. Argument of the day is what I'd call it when we had our little conflicts. I never had any hard feelings for it; didn't need to- he was an opinionated man who cared about a lot of things. Just like me. And yet, he's the one they had to bury first. Condemned to Hell before he had the chance to fear it.
It's a long walk to where Damien takes his eternal nap. Got to cross the housing schemes, past the cul-de-sacs and suburban landscapes. Then, on to the hill beyond the thicket. All in the grim moonlight. Don't ask me why I didn't go at daylight. I can't be arsed.
Time doesn't fly when you're strolling through dead streets dimly lit by deathly pale orange street lights. Every rustle of a branch tucked in to the mass of virulent green of vegetation seems to me like another whisper from someone I used to know; another Damien. Even his name makes me feel a bit off now. When you're walking through ghost towns in the dead of night,thinking about the dearly deceased doesn't help.
I must have been halfway there when I heard it...That mind numbing crunch that came from behind me. I didn't see anything when I turned around, and I know what you're thinking;
"A twig snapped behind him. Someone has to have been following him. There's no way it could have been anything else."
Real funny. Regardless, I know there was nothing behind me, but that sound still echoes in my head, even now,when I've walked miles away. I see a mass of blinking illumination around the corner; a myriad of lights that twinkle over the backdrop of grinning caricatures and spinning mechanisms. It's the carnival. Surprised they still have those. Last time I checked, the fifties had long passed. It doesn't surprise me that no one's in sight. The staff is probably asleep, lying peacefully in their trailers and caravans while their grim inhabitance stands in harmony with the landscape tonight. The music is the first consistent sound I've heard in hours. It gives me a little relief, even though it sounds creepy as hell. Come to think of it, the wind isn't blowing against me as much anymore. I avert my gaze from the painted carny structures and look ahead-I've arrived. The hill is right in front of me.
Fast forward to the hillside. Everything seems quaint enough to not be on guard. I spot Damien's mound and head over. Now I know I should have turned back when I could. Standing there, over his fresh mound, was a person, but not someone who looked like any other person. Tall, but a hunchback.
He was wearing some curious robes, one white dot painted between his eyes. He held a gigantic shovel, gripping it tightly like a sword. The casket was open. He froze, almost as if he was surprised to see Damien had anyone who would bother to pay their last damn respects. Now, I'm a man of instinct; I tossed the chrysanthemums aside and lunged forward. Grabbing this freak by the neck seemed like my biggest mistake- he didn't seem very happy about that. We brawled in the grass for what seemed like hours. Grass blades whizzed past me as he threw punches that were slow, but heavy. I let fatigue get to me, and I laid back on the ground hoping he had just as much fight left in him as I did. I hoped wrong. Before I could take a second breath he's towering over me with his weird-as-hell shovel, raises it above his arms, and brings it down in one thundering blow that made me believe that it was all over. Some cruel joke that was, because I woke up. He's gone now. Took Damien with him.
All my bruises and my busted ribs mean nothing. I stand up, and look over the hillside, across the carnival; nothing. Looks like this chrysanthemum is going to waste.
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