Page 49 of Wicked Salvation

It’s only been a few months, yet the stone is already weathered. She has the most modest grave here, no marble angels with weeping eyes, no elaborate headstones, no grand epitaphs about light or love or legacy.

Just her name.

Two dates with a dash between them.

It’s when I hear the crinkle of the tissue paper that I realize I’m gripping the bouquet too tightly. This is just like the funeral.

They’ve reduced her to something so simple.

As if a life like Vivienne’s—one built on anarchy that blazed like wildfire—could be contained by a single line. It’s an insult to her.

This is all we have left of her.

That’s why this fucking place needs to be destroyed.

Religion treats women worse than animals, and a gay woman? You’re as good as dead. I close my eyes, leaning against Vivienne’s headstone.And sometimes, they kill you to make sure you don’t cause any trouble.

Time slips away from me, bending reality into something I don’t quite understand but can’t bother to face. The night soaks into the fabric of my skull-patterned hoodie. The stone is cold against my back, it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

The flowers—her favorite shade of dahlias—slip my hand, scattering at the base of the grave. They spill carelessly against the dark soil. Like secrets bleeding out, like innocence trying to take root in the wrong place.

I pull my legs up, resting my chin on my knees.

“Hey, Viv,” I murmur, my voice rough. I haven’t spoken in a while. “Brought your favorites again.” If I look close enough therotting petals from the last time I was here are still scattered around. “The people at the flower shop in town must think I’m a very devoted boyfriend.” I chuckle.

The words drift into the darkness.

No answer.

“It’s been rough without you,” I continue. “I didn’t realize how much I needed you in my life, punk.” That one particularly stings.

I’ve always tried my best to live in the moment, to ensure that everyone in my life knows just how much I care about them. Yet it still haunts me—did Vivienne know how much she meant to me as she was falling to her death?

How much she meant to Marita…to Edie?

There’s an unwanted bubble of resentment that pops within me at the thought of her. But I let it pass as quickly as it came. This moment is about Vivienne, not the girl who broke my heart. A wave of grief comes right after.

Grief never asks permission.

It doesn’t care who’s around or what you’re doing.

It’s just always there, like a second skin.

A friend you never made, but sticks to you like glue.

I’ve been visiting Vivienne as often as I can. Between wreaking havoc on Augustine, the grief of losing Vivienne and locking myself away in my cottage like a hermit because the thought of Edie haunts me—it ends up being once a week.

Sometimes it rains, and I bring an umbrella for the two of us.

I’ve had lunch with her, watched the bleeding sunset.

“I wish we had more time, Viv,” I whisper, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.

Dahlias, damp earth, rust—the air smells just as dreary as you’d expect. Yet the cemetery hums around me—crickets, the low sigh of the wind rustling through the grass and trees.

Life is relentless here, too.

Just like Vivienne was.