Tragedy aside, I thought it was all rather romantic. I'd visit his grave daily and lay fresh flowers at the base of the polished headstone. Daisies - his favourite. I can't decide whether or not it's ironic that he pushes them up now.
When I left the house on the third morning after the incident, it was as though his presence followed. As I lent down to place a fresh bunch, I swear his voice came to me, an ethereal blessing:
"Fuck off pretending I'm dead, Louise."
It was almost like he was really with me.
When I left the house on the third morning after the incident, it was as though his presence followed. As I lent down to place a fresh bunch, I swear his voice came to me, an ethereal blessing:
"Fuck off pretending I'm dead, Louise."
It was almost like he was really with me.
