old life is absorbed by new,
and so the rain falls.
Wolfgang had gathered money to return to Germany, but it would hardly be needed now. There were other uses for it. There was enough money for a decent burial plot and a tombstone. The arrangements had all been made. Brooke would surely find good use for the rest. She should be the one to have it, after all.
Lorraine sealed the money into an envelop and left it on Brooke's bunk. Inside was a note which said only, "Thank you," There were simply no other words. Her other belongings were packed neatly on her bunk, the blankets folded underneath them. None of it had meaning, not now. Out of her possessions, she took only a tarnished gold locket and her best dress, dyed black for mourning.
She walked to a mirror as she fasted the frail gold chain around her neck. A pale, cold face stared back at her solemnly.
'It would be nice to cry,' she thought, with no result.
She brushed the thought away, an errant child of her softer side. Death was only natural. It was nothing to cry about.
She pulled her hair up and secured it neatly, then brushed any wrinkles out of her dress. Satisfied that she looked her best, she walked downstairs and out into the cloudy day toward the boys house.
It appeared to be empty when she walked in, but she tried to be quiet anyway as she walked over to Raven's cage. "Shh." She said, hardly expecting him to listen. The bird didn't know how to be still. It was always fluttering it's wings and skwawking. She picked up the cage, ignoring his protests, and walked back outside.
It was a somewhat long walk to the cemetery. It was clammy and cold and a light drizzle started before she was halfway there, turning into a sprinkle as she neared the gates. Raven tried to shake the water off his feathers, no doubt wishing her to his own birdly version of hell for bringing him along.
"Soon enough," she muttered, pushing open the gates and walking to the freshly made grave at the top of a hill. There was no stone yet, but there would be. She had paid for it already.
A couple, she had told the man. They lived for each other. She was very sick and it was only a matter of days, really. No. There was no hope for her. Was she a relative? he wanted to know. Yes. Of a sort.
"Wolfgang Faust and Lorraine, Nov. 7, 1887-Oct. 20, 1907, Jan. 3, 1889-Oct. 23, 1907," it would read, "Thou wast all that to me, love, For which my soul did pine. Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise but to be overcast!"
She put the cage on the ground by the mound and sat beside it. "Poor Raven. I didn't think you'd want to be given to someone else."
She opened the door and reached into the cage, grabbing hold of him. She didn't care if he bit or clawed at her. After all, what did it matter? "You always were such a pretty bird," she said as she pulled him out of the cage, stroking his feathers lightly. "I'll miss you. Visit me sometime."
With that, she opened up her hands and let him fly away, watching him as he perched on a nearby tree. Tears glistened in her eyes adn she wiped them away in frustration. "Crying over a bird, of all things. How stupid."
She reached into her boot and pulled out the small knife she always carried with her.
"There is no place in this world for me without you. You should have known that, Wolfgang."
With a steadying breath, she drew the blade across one wrist and then the other, until slender rivulets of red gushed out of the cuts and started to fall on the already rain-soaked mound. She calmly put the knife away again and curled up on the dirt. "Wait a little longer, love. I'm right behind you."
And then she cried.