RYLIE

DROPS OF RAIN beaded down the roof to the window, dripping on the outer window sill. The crisp aroma of the rainfall invaded my bedroom spread from the open window. Crisp wind blew against my wavy curls that blew behind my ears. I've always enjoyed the rain. The way it pattered against the roof was satisfying, the way it smelled was pleasing, and the way it sounded was gratifying. 

Rainy days are also a perfect excuse for me to stay inside the house and sulk. My mother insists that it isn't good for me—and I know she's right—but I can't help it. Today, I don't have the inspiration to do anything else. 

I took a deep breath before abandoning the desk chair I sat on near the window. I placed my phone and house keys inside the pocket of my black hoodie. Before I could take one last look at my window, Cookie stopped me dead in my tracks and meowed, as if she was asking what was the matter.

I picked her up with my arms and hugged her lightly, scratching behind her ears with my hand. She purred, followed by another meow. I guess she wants an answer.

"I'm fine, Cookie. It's just that . . . I don't feel good today," I replied with a sigh, plopping myself on the rim of my bed, only causing her to meow. "I'd say more if my answer isn't enough for you, but I don't want to traumatize you."

It's true. Today is a day where I feel off. I can blame it all on today's date, September sixteenth. This day may mean absolutely nothing to some people, but to me, it means everything—and it's all for a reason. Cookie meowed once again and leapt off of my bed and stretched herself, snuggling on the floor before falling asleep. My lips pursed into a smile, then faded back into the way it was before—a glower. 

I sighed heavily before opening the door of my bedroom, racing out of the room. I proceeded down the hall to the staircase, carefully walking down each step. Once I reached the bottom, I headed towards the front door, opened it, walked out, and closed the door behind me. I'm not going to go anywhere anyone would think I would go. I'm going to go somewhere nearly nobody would go, especially on a rainy day like today.

The cemetery.

Yes, the cemetery. They've always creeped me out. Not only because there were dead people dug into the ground, but because of its creepy vibes. The way the wind howled, blowing against the leaves on nearby trees was terrifying. The creak the gates of the graveyard made whenever it opened or closed was disturbing.

Everything about the graveyard is . . . off.

But today, I'm going to go there, especially since Mom isn't home and won't come home from work for another two hours or something. She might ask questions that I may not want to answer. Don't get me wrong. I'm not going to the graveyard to mope around and stare at the ground. I'm going there to visit someone, a person who means a lot to me.

My thoughts were interrupted by the howl of the wind that covered the gentle sound of the rain that patted across the paved ground. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to the point where I was already soaked. I should've brought an umbrella with me. I guess I was too drenched in my thoughts to even remember to bring one.

"Shit," I heard myself mumble under my breath, pulling my hoodie over my head a few centimeters more. Rain dripped on my hoodie, as well as my shoes as I trudged inches closer to the graveyard. I could go back home to grab an umbrella, but there's no point in that now. I'm already here at the cemetery and I'm not turning back . . . even if I want to.

I laid my hand on the handle of the cemetery's aged metal gate. Water dripped from the sides of it, cascading down my hand to my wrist. I shook it off as I pulled the gate open, leaving a space large enough for me to proceed to the actual cemetery. The gate creaked in an obnoxious, yet spooky sound that made my spine chill.

Believe me, it's terrifying.

I stepped in a small puddle of water before I walked over the lush, fern-green grass. I made a sharp turn to the left area of the graveyard, observing each and every grave before stopping at one. This grave had Asher Colton Henderson engraved over it.

Asher Colton Henderson.

Yes, we're related. In fact, he's my dad.

When I was a young child, we had a strong connection. I could never imagine myself passing a day without seeing him. Of course, I still adored my mom—but I liked my dad better for some reason. We went to the park together, got ice cream together, and even went on picnics together, along with Mom. Our connection was one that I wanted to last forever. Unfortunately, it didn't. It only lasted a few years more.

When I was ten or eleven years old, everything changed. It was like everything began to tumble down hard, like bricks or heavy stones. It all started with Mom and Dad bickering over anything and everything. Whether it would be over a small thing or over something serious, it hurt me a lot. Sometimes, they would argue late into the night, refusing to be anywhere near each other. That left me to spend dozens of nights to wonder if they'd stay together.

At this time, we never got ice cream together anymore, or went to the park or on picnics. Yeah, I know; maybe I was outgrowing the park a bit, but still. It hurt a lot. My parents would always tell me that everything would be okay. Part of me wanted to believe them, but deep down, I knew that everything wouldn't be okay.

And I was correct.

When I was thirteen or fourteen, everything went downhill even more. My parents ended up filing for a divorce. When I found out, I was shocked, but at the same time, under the weather. Never in my life would I think that they would decide to split up. When I was younger, they could hardly stay away from each other. I was confused on how that could change . . . but it did. It somehow did. 

From that point on, all I wanted to do was hide in my room and ponder on how our little family of three would become. I knew that it wouldn't be good, but in reality, it became worse than I thought. Dad ended up packing up all his things and moving out of our house to an apartment that wasn't far from where we stayed. It felt weird to not have him in the house. It was oddly . . . quiet.

At the time, I sort of lost touch with him. By that, I mean that our connection went downhill. We hardly talked over the phone or in-person. We sometimes sent postcards to each other, but not often. I guess the same could be said about Mom and I, even if the two of us didn't have a connection as close as Dad's and mine.

I felt nothing but isolated and fatigued, not to mention that this all happened during the summer break before I started ninth grade. When the school year started, all I wanted to do was talk to no one. I wasn't interested in going to school events or group work. I didn't even want to join the school's reader's rally, which I'd sign up for the second it would be announced back in middle school. 

All I wanted to do was go to school, do my work, and go home—or even better—stay at home and sulk (which my mother refused to let me do). One or two weeks later, an unexpected person came to the door of our house. It was an officer, and he came to break some bad news to us. It was news that would change our lives forever.

The officer told us how Dad got into a severe car accident. Those few words were enough to make me break down into tears, but that wasn't it. The officer also told us that he was found drunk, which was oddly surprising since I would never imagine my father to drink and drive at the same time. The last thing the officer told us was that he didn't survive. 

As soon as I heard those words that day—September sixteenth—I sobbed, harder than I ever had before. The divorce between my parents was already enough to tire me out, and the heartbreaking news made matters worse. I remember that my mom was trying to console me, but none of it worked. I ended up crying for the rest of the day and didn't sleep for the entire night.

I felt as if my heart had been broken into multiple pieces. At that point, I didn't want to do anything. I didn't want to go anywhere or speak to anyone. I only wanted my dad to be alive and my parents to be together and happy. It was a wish that was never going to come true.

Tears trickled down the corner of my eyes, rolling down my cheeks to the tip of my chin. I wiped as many tears as I could with the back of my hand. Soon enough, my hand wasn't doing enough about the tears that kept falling from my eyes. It was like I was crying a storm—one that won't stop anytime soon.

"Hey," a familiar voice said from meters away. "Are you alright? You look soaked from the rain."

My head turned to face whoever was there. It was Elias from school. He had a scarlet-red umbrella that shielded his head, protecting him from the rain. A warm smile danced across his lips, covering the concern in his eyes.

I can't let him see me crying—it will be embarrassing. I began to wipe my face so I could look presentable. I managed to keep in some tears, but it won't last long.

"I'm fine," I muttered with a sniff. "Why are you here?"

"I was walking home, but I saw you standing here from the fence of this place," Elias replied, gesturing to the rusted, bronze fence that was behind us. "I didn't realize it was you at first, but I came here anyway just to make sure you're okay. You don't have an umbrella or anything and it's raining a lot."

"Oh. It may be raining, but I'm fine," I insisted, looking him in the eye.

"Okay," Elias muttered, adjusting his umbrella. "You're Rylie from art at school, right?"

"Yeah," I stared at the ground, brushing a foot against the grass.

"Cool," he replied. "You can borrow my umbrella. I think you need it more than me."

He was right. My entire self is soaked with water, especially my hoodie. I'm also beginning to smell musky. I may like the rain, but I don't like this feeling. It's weird.

"But if I borrow your umbrella, then you'll get wet," I reasoned. "I don't want that to happen."

"It's fine. My house isn't far from here. Plus, I'll run," Elias insisted, handing the handle of the umbrella to me.

I hesitantly accepted it and hovered the umbrella over my head. It was quite a relief to not feel rain drops splatter all over me.

"Thank you for letting me borrow it," I muttered, plastering a small smile across my face. "I'll give it back to you tomorrow at school."

"No problem. By the way, why are you here?" He questioned. 

"I'm only here to visit someone," I stated, hoping that he wouldn't ask why. "You should get going now. Your starting to get soaked from the rain yourself."

"You're right," he said, putting the hood from his hoodie over his head. "I'll see you tomorrow at school."

He waved his hand before walking away to the gate of the cemetery. I watched him leave before he disappeared out of sight. I gripped the handle of his umbrella tightly. If Elias never came to the cemetery to let me borrow his umbrella, I would've still been here, soaked with water.

I faced my attention towards my father's grave, giving it one last look before strutting towards the gate of the cemetery. I let out the tears that I managed to hold back while Elias was here. Being in this cemetery is only making me feel sad—sadder than I already am.

"I miss you, Dad," I said solemnly before abandoning his grave.

Mom was the first thing I saw when I arrived home. Her arms were folded against her chest. She looked at me as if she asked me a question, and I didn't have an answer.

"Uh . . . Hi, Mom," I muttered, plastering a fake smile across my face.

"Hi, Rylie," she said, her arms still crossed. "I've been wondering where you've been since I got home from work a few minutes ago."

"I was at the cemetery," I explained briefly. "And I thought you were going to come home in at least two hours or something."

"I finished my work, so I decided to come home early," she stated, motioning me towards the living room. "Even when I'm not here, you should always tell me where you're going if you decide to go somewhere by text or something."

I nodded my head up and down. Mom doesn't like when I go places without telling her first. It makes her anxious. I'll definitely keep that in mind.

I sat on one of the arm chairs of our living room, while Mom sat on the sofa. She was still in her work clothes, which was an berry blue blazer dress and heels the same color to match.

"You look like you've been crying," Mom broke the silence while glimpsing at my face. "Is it because of the cemetery?"

"Well, yeah. It's just because of my memories with Dad. Looking at his grave made me break down into tears," I sniffed, glimpsing down at the tan, wooden floor.

"I know you're sad about it. I am too, and seeing you in pain makes me sadder," she sighed. "You've been holding everything in for the past four years or so. I think you should talk to some type of therapist to let everything out."

"I don't want to go to a therapist, Mom," I groaned. "I don't want to talk to some stranger about my problems."

"Then what about a teen support group? I hear they have one in town, and it's for free. It'll help you, sweetie," Mom suggested. "They have them every Tuesday and Thursday."

How in the world is a teen support group going to help me? I'm sure it will basically be me telling a group of strangers about how I feel, and I don't see the point in that.

"Do I have to go there?" I questioned sluggishly. "I don't want to go."

"I can't force you, but I don't like seeing you like this. It hurts me a lot. Please try to go," she pleaded.

The pleading look on her face started to make me feel kind of bad. If I say no, then she'll be unhappy and I'll feel guilty. Even if I don't want to go to the support group, I'll go anyway. I don't see how it'll help me, but I guess it's worth a try.