Why Would You? by: Aubrey Lackey

  There she left me, my heart and soul was 6ft under, and the thought of standing up, made me want to die. It feels like yesterday when I would drive by her house and have to yell, “Abby!” so she would know I was there, ready to take her to school. I now drive alone, and the silence of my car is gutting. On the weekends, or when things are starting to get hard, I go and sit at her grave. There are days when my mom has to pull me off the ground, screaming Adrian. There are days where I just go to talk to her. As I go through the stages, take it day by day, and try to live again, the thought of how her death didn’t make sense was on repeat in the back of my mind. One day she was here, the next day her dad let everyone know she had passed in her sleep from some type of seizure. How did she die so soon? How did she just, quite literally, disappear? 

One foggy evening where the birds fell quiet and the grass had a late night dew, I decided to sit with my lady and talk about life. She always loved the night. I talked for what felt like hours with no reply and soon I drifted to sleep on accident. Asleep at a graveyard in winter is never a calming experience. Suddenly, the crunch of a branch woke me up. I rapidly searched the graveyard, trying to find the source of the noise until I realized whatever “it” was, was looking at me from behind. The sour breath and awful stench of death consumed me as it moved closer. Instantly I broke into a sprint and hopped the gate. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore, but it wouldn’t stop making an appearance. Running, sprinting, heaving in and out, trying to escape was all that entered my mind. I completely forgot to check and see if it was still following me. I sat down on the curb to catch my breath and figure out if I was crazy for seeing what I saw. 


As Adrian was analyzing everything in his mind, almost like a story, “it” slowly leered out of the dark corner. Adrian’s adrenaline was coursing through his blood stream; the rush of blood too loud, pounding in his ears, for him to hear behind him. Step by step it moved closer and closer, out from the dark, only to reveal that “it” was a person. No animal or monster could even be considered now that he was in the light. The man pulled out his weapon of choice, a chainsaw, and began to lick his lips at the sight of this clueless boy. Adrian continued what he was doing, calm now. The murderous man lifted his chain saw above his head and started it as loudly as possible. As Adrian whipped his head around, finally realizing the man was behind him, he let out the loudest, blood curdling scream and fell to his bottom. Trying to scooch away as quickly as he could, the chainsaw neared his foot, then his hand, then his head, and then his gut. The man raised his chainsaw and whipped it left to right, getting closer to the boy’s colorless skin. Adrian grabbed his wrists, and they wrestled with a live chainsaw between them, both trying to not get caught by its already blood-covered blade. 

The man began to become weak, fighting less and less until all you could hear was the deep breathing behind his mask. He fell to the ground and started coughing a particular cough. Adrian stopped dead in his tracks, his heart pounding faster and harder than ever before. He looked over at this feeble murderer, a man who couldn’t fight long enough to kill him, and bent down to his face only to utter the words, “Why?” A slow rise of anger formed inside Adrian as he fully comprehended the facts of the situation. This man was her killer and more importantly this man was her father. Cystic Fibrosis forces you to cough up all the gunk in your lungs, and it just so happened that her father had that diagnosis. Adrian ripped the mask off the killer’s face to reveal what he already knew, a devil, a killer, a father, and now the end of all the lies. Adrian yelled and sobbed and shook his fist at the killer. Devastated, he picked up his phone and called the cops. 

The case was solved. The man was caught. The graveyard killer was locked away for good. Adrian still went to his girlfriend’s grave, mourning her. It hurt a million times worse now that he knew her dad was the killer, my dad was the killer. It’s me, Abby, the girlfriend. I watched all of this go down. I saw you weep at my grave and fight my sick father. The truth is he didn’t kill me. I didn’t die. I am right here Adrian. You can’t know where I am, but as you sit at my grave, I see you, and I am always right there breathing as you’re weeping, yet you never notice. By the time this letter gets back to you, and you read through exactly how I perceived that day; you’ll be dead and with me again. You cheated on me, and I know it. So it’s me, Abby. I’ve been watching you. 


I looked up from reading the random letter that was slipped in my mailbox at some point while the cops had come to arrest the killer only to find the door to my room swung wide open. There, standing in my doorway was the psycho love of my life, and before I even began to register it was her, my hand was severed in two. The graveyard killer was my “dead” girlfriend. All I could think to say was, “why would you?”

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