Things You See in the Graveyard (Tag:Dahlia) FIN.

[mephi]

The funeral was over.

'What a waste of time,' he thought. Damien had much better things to do than go the funeral of one of his father's lackeys. Like get laid. Or tease his servants. Or threaten them. Either one would work, really. Anything better than sitting for three hours listening to mindless noise issuing from the "friends and family of the deceased." All that stuff about God "accepting his soul into heaven" was a load of Bullshit. With a capital "B."

Like anyone in this little "mob" would get to heaven. Murders, gambling, fun stuff galore! That totally fit in with "God's plans" up there. Riiiiight.

The moment the ceremony was over he darted out of the green area like a woman camping out in front of a shoe store for a sale once the doors are open. The green part of the cemetary scared him. They made the modern side look all cheery and happy. Like the dead were cheery and happy. Fuck that. They're dead.

"You wanna know what the dead think?" he said to himself as he entered the older, more decrepid side of the lot. "They think bastards like them should leave them the hell alone, and quit trodding all over their graves!" He'd never stepped on a grave in his life. He had much more respect for the dead than that.

'I hope they were happy when they died...' he thought, glancing over every grave in melancholy. 'Otherwise what's the point in dying? Though the afterlife must be one hell of a place!"

He came to a little garden area that was fencend in, housing some fancier graves. He looked all around, trying to find a place to sit. Sitting in the graveyard wasn't really his thing, but he didn't want to go out there and face his father's army again. They might assign him something...

There it was. A bench, made out of marble. But sadly, there was a black bundle on it. Well, he was going to move it, because it was the only bench in sight. He moved over to it, and tried pushing it. As he touched it, he realized it was a person. A very COLD person.

"Oh, come on! Is there seriously a dead body in THE GRAVEYARD! Isn't that a little bit too cliché?"

[dahlia]

Dahlia hadn't wanted to go home the night before. Not just because the graveyard was a quiet, relaxing, and safe place to sleep, but because she knew there was nothing for her at home. All there would be was her sinning leech of an aunt, simpering and lazy.

No. There was nothing for her there.

Here, on the other hand, she had friends; they were long-gone, but they were friends all the same. When she slept in the graveyard, she felt protected by them, like the whole cemetery was a mother and she was coming home. It would be strange to say it was her real home, because although she was very close to the dead, she herself was in the realm of the living. It was close enough, though.

Usually, no one bothered her- especially not in these back parts that no one even really dared to penetrate. So she had gone back here, but with no intention of falling asleep. She was just so tired, and it was so cold, and so dark...

With a jolt, she awoke, instinctively scooting as far away as she could from the person who'd touched her. The bench was against the corner of a stone wall, and so she flattened herself against that, still curled up. With a quivering, spidery movement, she swept away the veil from her face, revealing her extremely confused expression and wide eyes.

The man that stood before her buzzed with death, like those passing people every once in awhile- ex-soldiers or policemen, people that dealt with death a lot. But this was different. He certainly was attractive, she noticed, but it was shadowed over by his crude, rough behavior. Why in the world would anyone be so rude?

[mephi]

The figure scrambling away from his touch was a little disconcerting. But he hadn't expected what he saw when it pulled back it's veil. This person... No, this WOMAN, was breathtaking. She had a frantic look on her face, like she had been caugt doing something she shouldn't have. But that was the way he liked it.

He wondered what she was doing here, by herself. Sleeping in a graveyard was a little creepy, if he said so himself. Which he did. The girl's cold aura and black attire suited it though. Maybe she was in mourning and came here sobbing, and ended up faling asleep? Poor thing...

He almost looked sympathetic for a moment. But his feet were killing him, and he envied how she sat on the hard stone, feet completely off the ground. So he scooted her over. Literally.

"Sorry about this, but when there's a seat available, I'm going to take it." He moved her legs over a little bit and sat beside them. "I apologize if I woke you. If you want, you don't have to mind me and can just go back to sleep. I don't care."

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. He puffed a long drag and smirked at the girl, flinging his lighter back into his jacket. He flicked his head towards himself in an impromptu greeting. "The name's Damien," he said through his cigarette. "You?"

[dahlia]

Dahlia squirmed and fidgeted every time he touched her, trying to scramble herself farther away from him. It wasn't him so much as that she hated when people touched her. It was even worse that she couldn't speak to them, so touching them was sometimes the only way to get their attention.

She stared at him a moment, watching as he blew the cigarette smoke everywhere. Her brows pulled together in a slightly miffed expression. He was polluting the air where the souls of the dead were supposed to rest. If he wouldn't have respect for the living, couldn't he at least have some for the dead?

When he asked her name, she plucked her notepad from its hidden place in the folds of her mourning gown, quickly scribbling something and handing it to him.

My name is Dahlia.
Please don't touch me anymore.

The nature of her appearance and the gentle way she'd handed him the paper were evident signs that she was not angry with him, but simply just didn't want to be touched. Dahlia looked away from him as he read it, looking down and trying to sort out a way to leave the situation.

[mephi]

"Dahlia..." He repeated the name on his lips as he scooted farther away from her. He raised his eyebrow at her choice of the notepad for speech. Why did she use that, anyway? She seemed to have it on hand with her all the time...

"Sorry I moved ya, but when you have to stand for four hours at a funeral you could care less about, you need a place to rest, am I right?" He almost moved a hand to shake her hand, but remembered what the note said. He retracted his hand. "Um... So... Do you have family this side of town?" He laughed trying to make a joke, but realized it was insenstive.

Wonderful. He was quite the insensitive person.

[dahlia]

Dahlia sighed quietly, looking at him. Her gaze wasn't piercing, but burning, haunting... and quite effective. Almost like his, in a way. She picked up her notepad again and began to scribble on it. Once she was finished, she ripped off the paper with a rather violent motion and gently passed it to him.

Yes, I have family.
They're your family too.

She turned her head away again, her thin fingers slowly fiddling with the edge of her veil. Of course he would be so ignorant. They were her family, and his too- they were of the human race.

[mephi]

Damien raised a finely shaped eyebrow, taking another long drag from his cigarette. He stared at the girl out of the corner of his eye. "You serious about this shit, huh?" He gave a hollow laugh. "I have no family... The human race a despicable thing."

Oh, he knew what she meant. He wasn't stupid. But at her words he looked over to where he was sure his father was leaving the graveyard, surrounded by his bodyguards and his mother, always blind to follow. He would never be that ignorant. He wanted to join them, sometimes. But then he remembered what they did to people, and he didn't want any part of it. Kind of like how God punished good people. His family did the same.

The cigarette almost dropped from his mouth he was staring off so, but he pulled it back into his mouth. To change the subject, he said, "What's with this notepad? You mute or something?" He laughed.

[dahlia]

Dahlia winced at his harsh words concerning the human race. He was right, some of them were despicable, but humans were only what the world made them, and everything had a cause. If you murdered someone, obviously you were very traumatized, or maybe even pressured into doing it. If you did drugs, it was the only release you could find from your hard life.

Humans were fragile, but no one seemed to understand that; they all thought that people could buck up if they really tried. It wasn't like that for everyone. One may call a suicidal person cowardly, but there was nothing cowardly about it. There certainly wasn't anything brave about it either.

This man didn't understand either- the things that people did... they could be helped. They always could be helped, had it not been for the cause of their trauma.

Dahlia just watched him, straight and calm when he asked about her notepad and laughed at her. She caught his gaze with her own, which had been resting on him like a fog. Slowly, she inclined her head, in what looked like a nod.

Mute.

[mephi]

Mute. God, he was so cruel. But like he knew. He wasn't really one to be intuitive. In fact he kind of envied her. If no one could hear him, he wouldn't have to worry about people constantly criticizing him. There would be nothing to criticize.

Her eyes sort of kept him in place, though. They were so... haunting. Like a car crash. They were so terrifying that you couldn't look away, no matter how much you wanted to. He handed her back the notepad. "Why are you here, in the graveyard, if not for a funeral?"

[dahlia]

When he handed her back her notepad, his fingers happened to graze hers. They were cold, like a dead thing, and bony- clammy. Was she dead? Was he talking to a ghost? This time, though, she didn't shrink from the slight touch, but rather, she stayed there a moment. Her strangely-colored eyes flashed for a second before she pulled away, notepad in her lap.

It had only lasted a split second for him, but for her, it lasted fifteen minutes- fifteen minutes of agonizing torture. Watching this man getting his limbs slowly dislocated, some torn off, feeling some of her own being torn off. The scene went black after a man showed something into her eyes, but the pain went on. She wasn't feeling it herself, but her brain ached and her stomach flipped as if she were in great pain. Choking, agonizing pain.

But, again, it was only a split second for him.

Her pen lingered a moment before she wrote:

I like it here. It's quiet.
No people.

[mephi]

He looked at the girl with a funny expression. She was quite the oddball, this one. He wondered if he could break her solemn attitude, but he doubted it. Still, it would be nice to try.

"Boy, do I know how that is..." He said, trying to connect with her. "Sometimes people won't ever shut up... They keep telling me that everything I do affects "the cause" and yet all I see is one more person filling these graves, over and over again... I bet it'd be easier, dead."

He usually didn't spout off like this to people he didn't like, and everything in his personality told him he shouldn't like this girl... But there was something about her. He was kinda drawn to her. She had the stench of death all over her. Not that he could actually smell death, but he felt it, all over her body. She couldn't be a murderess, could she? Then again, who was he to talk. He'd been murdering people all his life, per his father's orders... Well, except those few occasions where there'd been some... slip ups.

[dahlia]

Ah.

She glanced at his clothing and just slowly nodded. He buzzed with death before, and now she knew why- a mobster, no doubt, with quite a few snapped necks to his resume. Dahlia had helped people like him before... people who'd been born into their line of work and only wanted a way out. She'd been close to death herself quite a few times, just being exposed to their sky-high tempers.

After a moment, she lowered her pen to the paper and wrote,

You don't have to work for them, you know.

How sad and how true it was. If he kept up what he was doing, it would be the end of him- he would die at the hand of another gang. But perhaps if he tried to reason with whoever his father was, he could make it out. Reason... or perhaps even stand up to him. At least then he would die nobly.

[mephi]

Damien's eyes widened at her remark, but then eased. Of course, it was probably obvious now. He sighed. "How I envy the people who could get out as easily as you say..." He chuckled half-heartedly. "Is it really that obvious? It must be. I do make a point to flaunt myself around. You must know who I am... If you don't, the last name Talbot should mean something to you."

He took another drag of his waning cigarette. "Well, it should if you watch the news at all. Or read the papers. I'm pretty well known, though not by my own means." He ran a hand through his messy hair. "I'd give my soul to be famous by my own means. That's why I strived to be a millionaire. I wanted fame for something I did, not for what my father was..." He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Now I guess it doesn't matter."

[dahlia]

Dahlia listened to him patiently. Ah, yes... it was the story of every strong child born into the mafia. They wanted to be themselves, but part of whatever their parents were involved in; they strove to be their own entity. If only they could see that being themselves was easy and generally painless... even if it meant...

But, no. She had to remind herself that death frightened people- it was painful for them, while it was a part of her everyday life. Well, it was a part of theirs too- they just had the option to ignore it. There was a reason why she couldn't, though she barely understood it herself.

Dahlia scribbled on her paper and then handed it to him.

Does it matter if you're famous, as long as you're your own person?
I would rather be good than famous.

[mephi]

Damien laughed when he saw what she wrote. "Good? Good is overrated, you know. And besides, I'd be famous anyway, just by having Samuel Talbot as my father. What kind of name is that to live up to?" He took one last puff of his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and stomping on it with his feet. "There isn't really any good to come from being his son, Dahly. If I may call you that?"

He grinned at her like a Cheshire Cat. "Sounds like 'Dolly.' Hehe, and that's like Dollface. Like mob bosses used to call their whores back in the day." He chuckled, leaning back a little. "With that thick accent too. I think its annoying how everyone tries to label gangsters as Italian. Can't there be a French mob too? I'm askin' ya." He shrugged, rolling his eyes. "Ah well. In a country so fucked up as this I might as well take whatever stereotype I get. Roll with the punches..."

He looked up as a raven flew by his head, and perched on a nearby gravestone. It stared at him straight in the eye, like it could see his soul.

'Well, why don't I just stare right back?'