Who: October Fischer What: A short narrative Where: Local cemetery When: Today Warnings/Rating: Sadness
Toby didn't often go to the cemetery where his father had been laid to rest nearly half his lifetime ago. It wasn't because he disliked his father, or was mad at him for the way he left the world, not in the slightest. Most of it boiled down to the simple fact that Toby and his father were entirely too much alike, even when Toby had been younger, and the similarities in their behaviours, their very personalities made Toby worry about his own future.
The grave was a simple thing, picked out by a young man who hadn't quite come into his own, the headstone simple grey granite engraved with his father's name, the date of birth, the date of death, and nothing more. The air was hot, nearly 100 in the sun, but it was a distant thing to be acknowledged as he dropped down to sit in front of the stone, pressing his fingers against it. "Hey, Dad," Toby started, his voice pitched low, a conversation between him and a man who was twenty years gone, but time hadn't dulled the memories he had of the man. Quiet, soft-spoken, he had been a man who held in his feelings, let them out only in his writing, and few people, even their mother, had any idea of the things that went through his head. In many ways, Toby was his father's mirror, and had his mother been more aware of the world around her, more in touch with reality, she would have realised how deep the similarities went.
"I'm sorry I haven't visited in a while. Things have been insane here, and I keep meaning to come visit but..." It wasn't a good excuse, and he knew it, but what more could he say? A long sigh escaped him, fingers falling away from the granite, hands lacing together in his lap as he dropped his head forward. "I'm scared, Dad. I'm scared about how I'm feeling. I'm scared that I don't know how to handle this, and I have to wonder if you had the same thoughts before you- you know. I don't have to say it aloud, do I?" He let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound dying quickly in the dry, hot air of the desert around him. "Not that I would ever do that. I couldn't. Not to Jan, not to March, and not to Mom. She's already lost you, and even if she didn't realise I was gone, I can't take the chance. But I don't know what to do. I'm tired. Tired of waking up in the morning in my office because I cannot bring myself to go home every night to an empty apartment and all of my thoughts. I'd rather work, but even my colleagues are starting to get worried. Refusing to let me cover shifts. Who'd ever thought that a doctor would be told he cannot work? That he's working too much, especially when we're prepped in med school that the hours will be long." Toby opened his eyes, staring long and hard at the granite stone, hands coming up to steeple in front of his pursed lips. "I wish you were still here, Dad," he finally said, eyes bright in the sunlight. "I could really use you, your advice, whatever you could offer me." He let out a long, ragged sigh, mopping a hand over his face, and then he settled into silence, head bowed, sweat trickling down the middle of his back beneath the long-sleeved button down he wore.