I can’t believe I’m here again. It feels like every time I turn around I’m back here. I walk isle by isle, looking at names of people who used to be. The first name I recognized is my mother’s. Linda Lucus, she died when I was six. She took herself from me. A little girl needs her mother to guide her. I sit at her grave and tell her bits of how my life has changed. I didn’t explain why I am here today, but I think she knows. She always knew when I was hurt and about to burst into tears. She would always make me laugh by pinching my nose or tickling my feet. I leave a flower on her grave and walk on. I pass my grandfather’s grave and next to it my grandmother’s; they died within a few days of each other. But I don’t stop. I have bigger issues on my mind then my grandparent’s romance. I finally get to the grave that brought me here today.
It was him, the boy who made many promises but never was able to keep them. His Mother blames me for his death; she said I was a reckless girl who drove him over the edge. Which wasn’t the truth, he was always into the thrill of trying new blends; the more of a high he could get, the better. He was always trying to convince me to try it, but I refused. He wasn’t as good as his mother thought he was. He had a dark side to him, a dark side that no one saw but me. I didn’t see it until I moved in with him. I remember when I first moved in; it was great. He was amazing and made me feel right at home. I’d say, “Dylan Rogers, you are going to spoil me,” and in response he would proclaim, “Layla Ava Lucus, you deserve every minute of it.” I would come home to roses, chocolates, and jewelry. Love letters, poems, and little sentiments of the lovely reminder of his admiration. Slowly, ever so slowly that all began to change: the roses stopped, the letters became few and he no longer felt it necessary to show his love at all. Instead he brought home drugs and alcohol. He got addicted to it all, me and the drugs, he seemed to think he could have both. He began to get forceful. If I didn’t do exactly what he wanted he would hit me. During the day, he was a perfect gentleman, but at home he became something entirely different. He became a monster.
I sit near his grave staring at the stone, written on it is: “A beloved Son, Boyfriend, and Brother, who will dearly be missed.” It’s ironic, because I don’t miss him at all. As horrible as it is to say, I am glad he is gone, relieved even. When I got the news I almost breathed a sigh of relief. It was over, the pain, the anger, and the hatred, but I was wrong. It was far from over. He haunted me in my dreams and every waking moment. Why I am sitting on his grave is beyond me. He doesn’t deserve to have me here. He deserves to rot where ever he is. A part of me still loves him, as I suspect I always will. You can’t stop your heart from beating, no matter how much it hurts. As the grave marker left a scar on the ground, his name leaves a scar on my heart. I stand up vowing to never return to this place, and to never return to him.