Lonely Existence

Someone once promised to spit on my grave.
The world can be cruel in so many ways.
All because I told her to have a nice day.
I thought that the world would be angry with any word
I said,
Until one man told me to have a nice day.
He gave his word that he'd get me to speak,
To open up to him one day.
Even if he had to sit by my grave.
By T. Nicole McCants

____________________________

Draco sat in the light rain, ignoring the water soaking into his clothing, and the way it clung to his skin. He shivered, it was getting cold; the sun had set long ago, bathing him in darkness. He couldn't be sure how long it was that he'd been sitting here, in the same spot. Every year he came to sit here, and spilled his heart out. All his worries, fears and
loves.

For years he was thought to be a mute; after the war he didn't have much to say about anything to anyone. But when he did speak he angered someone, even with the simplest of words. True, he hadn't chosen wisely at first, but in the end he saw the light. But leaving the dark side hadn't mattered in the eyes of many; it was that he had joined it in the first place. So many years his mind had been clouded by his elders, he'd been sculpted and used by those he thought loved him. Now he lived to pay the price of a misguided child.

Even the simplest hello caused people's faces to mar with frowns and cloud in anger. His self imposed silence was caused by one such episode. A promise to defile his resting spot because he uttered have a nice day. Meaning nothing beyond the words themselves, a simple, everyday phrase sent one woman into a rage. And why? Because they had come from his lips, the lips of the hated?

He looked up at the gray sky without really seeing, as it cried softly, soaking his skin with it's cold caresses. It always rained when he came to sit here and he never once thought to bring and umbrella. The rain helped to wash away some of his sorrow. It hid his tears and washed them away. Leaving no tell-tale signs but red rimmed eyes.

He hadn't spoken one word since that day choosing instead to acknowledge words with nods and waves. Until, of course, he heard the phrase spoken to him, a soft lilting voice that he hadn't heard since the war. The voice had wondered why he didn't reply in kind,
but learned very quickly though rather nastily that he didn't speak. The voice hadn't believed that he simply thought he was too good to speak, but saw the hurt beneath. That voice made a vow, to one day break through his shell and get him to open up and forget
the cruelties of the world. The voice promised to sit beside him, to talk to him to let him know he was loved. Even if it had to sit beside his grave. The voice made good on that promise; Draco felt the warmth and love for years, and now he was sitting here, cold.

He had spoken, if only for him, Draco would share his loves, his fears, his worries. He ran a hand over the cool stone, tracing the words.

Harry James Potter
Savior, Lover, Loved
1980 - 2003