A few months ago…
Aradia settled down cross-legged in front of the grave-marker, placing her bouquet of dyed daisies into the built-in vase. The April sun shone above her, its first time out this spring. It was exactly the sort of day her friend would have loved, in life. A good day to visit her.
“Hey, Melissa,” she whispered. There was no need to voice her calling; the woman would know she was here, would hear her without speaking. But it felt less strange to call her out loud than to sit silently before her grave, waiting. After a moment, she heard Melissa’s familiar voice come out through the throng of the dead, Hello, Aradia. I love the flowers.
Aradia smiled. I knew you would, she answered, letting herself slip back into her own mind, trying to tune out the other voices in the graveyard so it was just her and Melissa in her mind. How have you been?
Fine.
Aradia knew that was a lie. Melissa’s was a voice she’d first heard wailing in the night as she drove home from her friend’s house a couple years ago. She had to pull the car over and weep with her, overcome by a stranger’s grief and pain. A week later, she’d headed to the graveyard to find her. Melissa had recognized her and called her to her grave. The woman, murdered by her boyfriend, was the same age as Aradia now.
Sburbia was a quiet town, but that didn’t mean it was silent. Aradia felt the rage boiling inside her, the heat rising up to her skin, but she pushed it down. She was here to make Melissa happier.
Glad to hear it. And she told her about school, about her volunteer work, steering clear of anything that might upset Melissa. As she left that day, she realized what she had to do. They had a world full of heroes, and a woman being beaten to death by her boyfriend could still be overlooked. Archaeology would never save anybody’s life. She was tired of being immersed in death. When the next semester rolled around, she wasn’t going to re-enroll at her school. She was going to become a hero.
“Hey, Melissa,” she whispered. There was no need to voice her calling; the woman would know she was here, would hear her without speaking. But it felt less strange to call her out loud than to sit silently before her grave, waiting. After a moment, she heard Melissa’s familiar voice come out through the throng of the dead, Hello, Aradia. I love the flowers.
Aradia smiled. I knew you would, she answered, letting herself slip back into her own mind, trying to tune out the other voices in the graveyard so it was just her and Melissa in her mind. How have you been?
Fine.
Aradia knew that was a lie. Melissa’s was a voice she’d first heard wailing in the night as she drove home from her friend’s house a couple years ago. She had to pull the car over and weep with her, overcome by a stranger’s grief and pain. A week later, she’d headed to the graveyard to find her. Melissa had recognized her and called her to her grave. The woman, murdered by her boyfriend, was the same age as Aradia now.
Sburbia was a quiet town, but that didn’t mean it was silent. Aradia felt the rage boiling inside her, the heat rising up to her skin, but she pushed it down. She was here to make Melissa happier.
Glad to hear it. And she told her about school, about her volunteer work, steering clear of anything that might upset Melissa. As she left that day, she realized what she had to do. They had a world full of heroes, and a woman being beaten to death by her boyfriend could still be overlooked. Archaeology would never save anybody’s life. She was tired of being immersed in death. When the next semester rolled around, she wasn’t going to re-enroll at her school. She was going to become a hero.
