Overhead, the early morning sun casts shadows on worn grey stones, filtering through green tree leaves. Bright yellow flowers push up through sprawling blades of immaculately manicured grass. The air is perfumed with the sweet cotton candy scent of morning juxtaposed against thick urban smog. Ahead, endless rows of erect slab arched marble and limestone invite her to journey forward into the city streets of valuable real estate dedicated specifically to those no longer in existence. Gravel paths weave through the maze of headstones and her footsteps hum a thud-thud rhythm against Earth and grass.

She keeps a steady count of her steps just as she did one year ago. One hundred fifteen across, twenty nine down. Etched inscriptions whisper stories along the way - Hushed melodies of valor and bravery belonging to war veterans. Of love and residual sorrow for loving parents and a family of six gone too soon. Despite the overwhelming sadness, there is peace. Since childhood, she has always felt at ease in cemeteries. They became a place of respite and calm in the otherwise dizzying and dismal background of her childhood. The dead begged nothing of her; mingling with the living required effort. Here, everything was on her own terms and in her own time.

Atop the headstones rest flowers, rocks, and trinkets that commemorate and connect the dead with the living. Chocolate brown eyes scan across the writing as she keeps count in her head. One hundred fifteen across and twenty six down. Twenty seven. Twenty eight. Twenty nine.

Charles Vaux's headstone is a dark and nondescript marble that stands alone. The only writing consists of the impersonal detail of his name and relatively short lifespan. Soft feminine features contort into a wince while movie reel images assault her headspace. The flex of a tight jawbone through thin flesh signals her initial refusal to acknowledge the thoughts, the second attempt is a thrust hand that reaches desperately inside her bag for the flask that awaits consumption. Her thumb brushes across the letters engraved on the front as she raises the worn sterling silver lip to her mouth. It is the only memento she kept of her father's. Liquid choked back with desperate gulps, the clear elixir has glassy eyes falling glumly upon her father's name as she twists the cap back on.

He is the only man she has ever allowed herself to fully love and this has ruined her. It has skewed her perception and understanding of love in irreparable ways she simply cannot come to terms with. The man who bought her ice cream and read Peter Rabbit books to her at night. The one who lifted her on his shoulders and flung her around by an arm and leg on Coney Island while she giggled without a care in the world. The man who's vodka breath coated necks of women that weren't her mother. The one who came home at night in a blind rage and with powder beneath his nose, seeking a target to unleash his rage upon. The man who delivered jarring blow after blow to her brother, putting his all into each strike delivered to all of the Vaux's except Brielle, sinewy arm recoiling and snapping back, the impact delivered by an object rather than his own hand. With every hit, a cold zing of delight, a buzz unattainable by other measures. The monster who left his family in shreds, forever robbed of semblance, security, and answers. She often wished he'd hit her. Anything for a reason to justify feeling shattered without ever really being touched.

She spends hours with her face buried in sheet after sheet of Strathmore sketchbook. The sun sinks lower in the sky and dewy near-summer air turns crisp and chilly. Light becomes shadows and in their wake, the pain comes and goes like waves against frigid sand. The sketchbook sits open before her, hands and fingertips sooted with charcoal dust. She checks the time on her phone and ignores the missed calls and text messages from the past few days. Before packing up her belongings, she reaches into her bag. Fingers pass over the empty flask and dig past house keys and wallet until grasping an envelope. In it, two pieces of paper in a sheet protector as though precious and fragile contents might withstand weathering and time. She smirks because she knows fragile things are immune to pain and decay. Bending down to the ground, she picks up a rock and feels the dizzying spin of the electric alcohol buzz pulsate through flesh and bone. She secures the paper atop Charles' headstone and gathers her things, counting again as she ventures back towards civilization, every breath growing more and more hollow in her chest.