NANOWRIMO - WRITE WITH ME!

I thought he was following me, but there was no way to be sure. In my mind, he was just any normal person, with the exception of his face: contorting in the moonlight in that way that bloodlust does. Imagining he was toting around a blood-soaked machete was more comforting than having no theory at all about why he was skulking around at this hour of the night. A chuckle escaped me. He could be doing the same thing as me, after all. Maybe I looked suspicious. I glanced down quickly to make sure I didn’t look like a murderer. My sweatshirt was too big and my left sweatpant leg was pulled up, so unless he thought I was committing fashion crimes it’d be difficult to claim reasonable suspicion.
Once I arrived at the Williamsport Middle School Playground, I’m embarrassed to say I forgot all about my stalker. He had fallen far behind me, so I concluded that I was just that kind of lonely that daydreamed stalking. It’s very comforting, in a way, for someone to go through all the trouble to follow you through the foggy streets of Williamsport and strike terror into your heart. If even for a second.
I walked to the far side of the playground toward the swingset. Tenderly, I wiped off one of the seats with my sleeve and hopped on it backward. From here, I could see the one notable landmark of Williamsport. The cemetery had no fences around it and no large mausoleums which seemed like a waste to me. I always liked graveyards - they were fun to explore and occasionally the revelation that there were dead people in the ground below me would send a chill down my spine. I loved that. I loved graveyards. But, the Williamsport graveyard….
My back stiffened when I thought about the graveyard. When I was with my friends, I liked to joke about how nice it will be to rot. That it is probably peaceful down there like one big final nap time that we all have together. Like in kindergarten. I felt that same way alone, usually,, but looking at this graveyard made me feel differently. Most graveyards beckoned to me and begged me to explore me. The grim reaper waved at me telling me there was more to death than I thought. I just had to come to find it and explore. It beckoned. But this graveyard, I didn’t want to enter. I couldn’t. It didn’t beckon me and it didn’t promise any knowledge. I could see the entirety of the cemetery from the swings. There was nothing more to learn about death. It wasn’t about the dead people in the ground, when I looked at this graveyard. It was about me. If I walked onto the dirt path I feared I would be swallowed up. I would want to put up a fight, but I would be unable to. It’d be violent and coercive but look inevitable and peaceful and meaningful. I hated the thought. In my mind, the one thing I wasn’t afraid of was dying. But, this graveyard whispered in my ear, “You know what death is. You have always known. It is inevitable, meaningful. You will rest here one day whether you would like to or not.
Maybe it wasn’t the graveyard making me think these things. I had watched a lot of horror movies in the last couple of horrors. The steady gaze of pumpkins burned from the street’s many porches. I counted littered candy wrappers on my way here. It was both the time and the place. Williamsport always emanated death. It was charming to me just yesterday, but now it all seemed too ominous and threatening. On main street, the faces of dead children hang from streetlamps. They had gone to war for their country, I guess. Their families were proud of them, I guess. They were veterans and they were being celebrated for dying, I guess. It seemed cruel to be proud of them for dying, but if it made their families feel anything at all other than numbness I supported them. I couldn’t help but think of all the other children that Williamsport’s children had killed. And the veterans that had grown to be old like my grandfather. He was dead now too, and my father would have been better off if my Grandpa had died as a child soldier, er, marine.
He changed a lot in his final years. There was no way he was able to take a trip to a graveyard, in his old age and disability, as I had done. But, I think he had a graveyard on his mind. Maybe the one from his hometown. The change in behavior always seemed so intuitive to me as a child, so I never thought about it much. After all, he had abused my dad when he was a child - not me. He was always so nice to me. But, now, I have words for the change. I had this theory that everyone lived their lives according to how they had come to terms with their own inevitable death. As my grandfather got older, he had developed a different relationship with death. He wanted to be a good man. My father wouldn’t hear it though - he wanted nothing to do with Grandpa. It confused me at the time. How could he not want to make amends with his own dad? That spoke more to my own relationship with my dad than his though. I get it now. He is not obligated to forgive Grandpa for what he did. If I had been presented with the option to know my grandfather now, I probably would not have done so. But, when you’re young things like that aren’t;t really up to you and you don’t know the full story anyway.I’m glad I become close with my grandpa before he died.
Grandpa told me about my dad when he was a kid. Near his death, he even told me about the abuse he inflicted on my father lamenting that at the time he did what he thought was right. I always liked the other stories. My grandpa recounted fondly when my dad was about 12. At a young age, my father was always interested in art. My grandfather was very hesitant- it wasn’t something you could make money off of after all - but he supported his son anyway. At Christmas, my dad ripped open a very average looking gift swaddled in greens and yellows. Inside there was an art set: there was a sea of oil pastel, charcoal pencils, crayons, Copic markers, and stencils. My dad cried - he had never been so happy in his life. It didn’t happen often but he hugged my grandfather and told him he loved him. He meant it. These were the tales that endeared my grandfather to me so much. It was so important for me to feel supported that these stories resonated with me. I felt them like I lived them I could feel the love radiating from my grandfather even on his death bed, Even while his son was disgusted by the sight of him. I remember I ran home after hearing that story in tears. I yelled at my dad “You’re an awful person! He loves you! You’re awful!” and he was silent. I kept prodding “He supported you. How could you just let him die alone? I would never do that to you! Nobody else could be so cruel!” and he was still quiet. I was starting to relax because he wasn’t reacting. My thoughts quieted and I was just left with a squeak,
“Why?” When he turned around he was crying. I took a step back. He had never cried in front of me before. He told me about the other side of grandpa.
My father was 16. My grandpa had been laid off from the factory that same day. He was fuming. When he came in the door, he paced from the kitchen to the living room
“.Are… you okay?”
“Where’s my watch? I can’t find my fucking watch.
”Jesus, it’s disgusting in here. You wallowing in your own filth now? Try picking up a little.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“My fucking. Watch!”
“I’m telling you you had it. Come on, relax.” Even as he was joking his stomach was sinking. His dad had gotten like this before a few times. It never ended well.
“Stop saying the same thing over and over. Do I look stupid to you?”
“Well, if you really wanna know-” my dad hazarded a rib at my grandfather’s expense. He didn’t get to finish it . My grandfather flung the nearest thing - a fireplace poker - at his son. It landed min dad’s foot and he coiled in on himself. He had begun sweating the moment his dad had entered the door, clearly agitated. The smell of his pits wafted out as he flung out his arms in shock. There was blood coming out of his shoe. My dad hollered and cried. My grandpa would pretend like he never did this. Maybe he really didn’t remember.
Heavy footsteps and angry whispers echoed from behind me and yanked me from my thoughts. I remembered the man following me earlier. In retrospect, the footsteps were too uneven and frequent to be one person which, at the moment, seemed much worse than a single person. My head rotated 180 degrees like my head was on a circular track at the end of my throat. My stomach dropped as I watched in horror.
Two men were wrestling with each other on the ground. The figure on the bottom reached back and patted the ground looking for something. I followed the arm with my eyes and saw what they were trying to grab. A knife. I gasped. The two of them stopped for a second as they realized they weren’t alone. The figure on the bottom called out to me,
, “Help-!”
The man on top grabbed the knife and cut his victim short. The knife entered clean, but exited tangled in blood and fear. My head snapped back to reality. I was witnessing a murder and I was going to be next. The swingset clung to me as I tried to jump from it as if it were an accomplice to the murderer now to my back. I heard him running already, his breath ragged. I untangled myself from the swingset and ran onto the dirt road leading into the cemetery. In the back of my mind, I was telling myself it wasn’t my time to die. I repeated it over and over again as the roots on the cemetery path grabbed at me, disagreeing. I revisited the idea of the earth swallowing me whole and I was convinced that would be preferable to this sudden perversion of normalcy. I had only gotten halfway into the small cemetery when I felt him grabbing my shirt. I was pulled back hard and fell the ground. I put my hand up to defend myself. I was expecting to see my killer but a sudden flash of red and a disorienting pain in my hand arrested my consciousness. And then I felt the knife enter again. And again. And again.
Sorry, Dad. I should have listened.