Today
has been just another hot and stickily humid day in a seemingly endless
string of many. Neither night nor day has offered any relief from the
oppressive heat. Even the nonchalant insects seem to be overly burdened
by the tyrannical sun. Not that there is anything noteworthy about this
during the summer months. In Mississippi, it has always been this way.
The
sun has just begun to set, splaying a soft, pink glow between the
darkening thunderclouds in the distance. The air is thick with an
imminent promise of heavy rain. Swallows exude an unspoken urgency as
they quickly skim and dart in the skies, looking to make a quick meal
out of the mosquitoes that hover unconcernedly amid the southern dusk.
Thunder rumbles threateningly somewhere along the horizon, and a
welcomed breeze that was not there a moment ago suddenly picks up.
One
look at the sky would tell you that it is not worth going out—this
storm is sure to be a bad one. However, it is moments like these, when
no one else can be found, that I choose to seek my refuge.
I
close my eyes and permit myself a rare moment to breathe deeply, taking
multiple thorough draws from the no longer stagnant air. Finally, I
begin to feel that it is peaceful here. I remain motionless, allowing
the hard-earned solace to seep into my tired and weary bones.
When
I open my eyes, the solemn angels that silently guard their keep are
painted in a deep sorbet of colors, highlighting the planes of their
cold and chiseled faces. In this light, these pale stone markers of the
dead serve only as softly warmer reminders of what once was.
It
might seem odd to most that I find my time spent in this place to be
rejuvenating. Usually, this is not where most living people readily
choose to go. Rather, the opportunity to visit is forced upon them
either by fate or a sense of obligation. To them, this place represents
only the bad—death, loss, sorrow, unfulfilled dreams, and pain . . . all
justifiably true. Though for me, if only for a moment, it is only when I
am here that these same emotions are not so chokingly poignant.
You
see, this is the only place where I am permitted a momentary courtesy
from heaven—the briefest awareness that everything is, and will be,
right. Although the impression never seems to last, no matter how
fleeting, it is a worthwhile gift nonetheless.
The
air has continued to grow heavier. No longer are there any signs of the
swallows or the pesky mosquitoes. They’ve vanished as the thunder has
grown increasingly louder, heralding the way of the storm. It won’t be long now, I think anxiously as I glance up at the sky.
Right
on cue, the sky loses its hold on the weighty burden it carries inside.
A torrent of rain is released, a merciful break to the summer’s
seemingly incessant heat.
I
wear only jeans and a T-shirt with some nondescript lace-ups on my
feet. Initially, a jacket sounds like a welcome idea to the unmistakably
chilly rain spattering on my unaccustomed, sun darkened skin, but I
remain seated on my cement bench beneath an ancient magnolia tree.
Relishing
this generous change in the weather, I close my eyes and tilt my face
upward. My dark hair quickly begins to trickle with water, the rivulets
leisurely running down my body. There is nothing quite like a summer
rain. I soak up its vitality and newness. I cannot help but hope that
maybe this time the rain will manage to cleanse my dirty and stained
soul. Perhaps then I will finally be offered the absolution I have so
long desired.
Thunder rumbles a reprimand, God’s reminder of my folly.
Instantly,
I am brought back to the painful reality of the hell I have been forced
to live. Peace, yet again, is merely an imagined and forced perception.
Just as quickly as my mood was heightened by the prospect of final
release, the rain casts everything in a dank shade of gray.
The
water continues to drip down my back, and bitterly I shiver at its
sting. As I breathe in the rain, feel the contrast between its cool
moisture and my hot, living breath, I accept that I can only remain
oblivious to the obvious for so long. At last, I find the courage to
stare at the headstone that lies before me.
A
desolate hunk of rock carved in the shape of a tree stump looms in the
shadows before me. It is moss covered, weather-worn, and neglected. Only
a few indifferent words were given to remember its charge:
Daine C. Dalton
August 15, 1840 – November 22, 1915
Daine
Dalton lived a good amount of time—seventy-five years. Seventy-five
years, and this is all that is left of him a hundred years later—a
rapidly deteriorating rock, decaying alone in the shade of an ancient
magnolia tree. It is depressing.
I
have often wondered if I were to dig up his grave, would I find
anything that resembled a man remaining? After this much time, surely
not. Besides, I do not think that he would appreciate it much if I did.
One
would think that after visiting this place for what seems an eternity,
never witnessing a renewal, and unfailingly bearing witness to the
perpetual demise of the new, that I would be more convinced of the
grave’s terminal nature. I am sorry to say that I am not.
There
was once a time when I hoped for as much. When I believed that eternal
rest was granted irrevocably in death, and when I was confident that
mortality was brief, but definite. No. All of that no longer applies,
and the finality of the grave has been lost to me.
Daine
Dalton’s gravestone states that he has been dead for a hundred
years—yet here I am, still living, breathing, bleeding, feeling, and . .
. unending.
I am Daine Caradoc Dalton.
This is my grave.
I
remember my beginning and everything that existed until what was to be
my end. And death, yes, I remember death. The deep cold that settled,
leaving me paralyzed in a terrifying haze as consciousness detachedly
slipped away . . .
After,
there was no heaven or hell. Only a waking, in which I discovered
myself lying naked upon my recently filled grave in my thirty-four year
old form. Since then, I have not aged a day. I have tried to end this
life, but death refuses to take me.
And
so, here I remain—a man who both bleeds and breathes, but yet is unable
to die. Tirelessly visiting the spot that is supposed to indicate his
final resting place, but finding only disguised anguish instead.
YOU CANNOT CHANGE THE LIFE YOU’VE BEEN GIVEN.
All
that you can do is make the most of what you’ve been dealt—fight a good
fight, resist being beaten by circumstance, and hope that somehow,
despite it all, you’re able to accomplish the impossible.
But even then you cannot change the fact that you were born cursed.
I am one of those unlucky few upon whom the Curse of the Four Fathers has fallen.
It
is I who must bear the burden of having a life that is unchangeably
intertwined with the Fae. A sorrow made all the more great by knowing
that where they are tragedy, loss, misery, and despair most assuredly
follow.
As
a Druid it is my responsibility to uphold the boundaries that keep the
worlds of the Tylwyth Teg, and our own, separate. As a man it is my only
ambition to protect the family and woman I so desperately love.
The only problem: I'm not sure this curse will allow for me to do both.
Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre - Paranormal Fantasy, Horror
Rating – PG-13
More details about the author
Connect with Marie McKean on Twitter
Website https://www.mariemckean.com
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment