Every Tuesday without fail, you bring a flower to the grave.
You don’t give it much thought, you never have, but perhaps someday you will draw the courage to face her, to face the grave of the woman you visit.
You know it is the grave of a woman, but how you know that is unclear.
Her name is a garbled mess of syllables floating on the breeze, but you pull your hat over your ears to block out the sound.
You do not want to know her name. The name is none of your business, you just bring the flowers.
Daisies. Always Daisies. Always on Tuesdays. Always as the sun dies and the moon casts a dull light onto the swaying trees.
It is calm, it is peaceful, and somehow you feel as if you are giving a small part of yourself to this unknown entity with every flower you place.
This ritual has been in your family for generations. You do not question it.
The white pedals are such a harsh contrast to the mossy, crumbled remains of the headstone, but there is beauty in the image and you smile.
The angel atop the gravestone has its head bowed, its face is cloaked in a veil that you could swear flutters in the breeze. You have never seen its face, but you place the flower in its cupped palms.
You’re feeling curious today. You want to see the face of the angel. You scoot closer and bend to put the flower in her waiting hands, but you lean closer, twisting your body to get a better look.
It is not a face of peace or grieving. The lines on the face are of horror. The mouth hangs open in unfiltered terror. The eyes are wide, blank and blind to anything but the hell before them.
You hear the echo of screams drifting around the headstones around you. The smell of charred flesh and rusted metal rises from the grave below.
You take a step back and straighten your back. The sweet smell of flowers makes you sick. The gentle breeze burst into a gust and it blows your hat away, it drifts out of your reach, but you do not notice. You are frozen.
You hear the words. You hear the words you were never meant to hear.
A rough, raspy voice rises up from a nearby grave “Sleep, my Daisy. Quiet your screams, quiet your crying, quiet your struggling. Sleep.”
You take a step back, away from the grave. You retrieve your hat from the thrashing branches above you. You pull it over your ears once again. You are no longer curious.
It is none of your business, you just bring the flowers.