Coimetrophoboia- Fear of cemeteries.

THERE WAS something strange, yet beautiful about a person's life ending.

Unlike animals- namely dogs, who everyone knows makes it to doggy heaven when they leave earth- Being human and having a naturally sinful soul, we are not guaranteed a happy ending or a happily ever after.

On one end, the person is dead. Their souls are casted out of their weak bodies flung into the world of the unknown, or dragged unwillingly into a pit of nothingness.

How can one imagine such a thing? One moment a person is here. They are breathing. Fresh Air is filling their noses, and other familiar scents too. Perhaps they owned a cat, or a dog, and would smell the odors of the animal every morning when they woke up, or every evening before they fell asleep. Perhaps that person owned a Bakery- yes, the best bakery. With treats as vast as the mind can conjure, and the smells were something along the lines of heavenly. There are croissants, and freshly risen bread, and oh- oh yes, donuts. Warm and gooey, nice and fluffy, or beautifully glazed. Painfully perfect donuts that made your mouth water by just looking at them.

Perhaps they owned this bakery on the best, most busiest street on the good side of town, where it lay comfortably wedged between a quaint little coffee shop and old run of the mill book store. Business was good. It was just enough, and then some. Everyone loved the bakery and everything in it. Everyone loved this person.

And then one day, the person heads home, tired and weary from the hard day of work. Perhaps this person was old and frail. Running a bakery had taken its toll on them, and they are more than ready to lay their heads down, and get enough sleep before the new day approaches. But, as they crawl into bed, their bones aching and head pounding, and the mattress feels oh so good on their aching joints that they praise Mary, they feel rather odd. They feel queasy, or detached.

They shake it off and call it a cold, that they're getting something that they caught from that one customer who just would not stop coughing everywhere. They lay their head on their pillow, their head sinking into its silky quality, and their noses inhaling the shampoo they used after the shower the night before. And they sleep.

But then they never wake up.

How incredibly morbid. How dare this happen. How dare they die, and leave behind their friends. Their family. Their lovely bakery snuggled between a coffee shop and a book store on the friendly part of town, on the busiest, best street. How dare they die and leave. And to never know what happened to them? How does one deal with that? One day, they are normal, and happy. They are tired, yes, but happy. It is hard work, but it is worthwhile. But then it is wiped out. They are gone, but to where is unknown.

The funeral is nice. The loved ones gather around, all sad and weary from the event. Everyone cries at all the right parts, laughs at all the good natured jokes, and is hushed into silence by the heavy words of the preacher. Then all will go silent for a moment, and every one will reflect what has happened. The preacher will speak softly, and say soothing words to the grieving crowd. They will say that the Baker- the one who perhaps owned a dog or a cat, who worked all day and had a good life- a good and wholesome life, is up in heaven right now. They are baking delicious baked goods with God and all his angels, no longer tired and worn down with the daily problems that come with humanity.

But truth be told, those are only just words to help console the crowd. No one truly knows what happens. No one knows that there are divisions. Gaps. Realms. Corners, edges, different planes of afterlife existence. That their are certain standards that need to be made to enter a certain afterlife. Its not just live a good life go to heaven. There is a certain criteria that is to be established for each plane. A certain factor that determines where some one will end up.

The Baker, who may or may not have owned a pet, had lived a good and wholesome life in the beginning of their existence. No one knows the depth of the in between, or the After. No one knows of the troubled Baker who had an obsession with children. The one who, at first, didn't seem like a problem. There was nothing off about them that met the eye. They went to the park, and watched the children play, and gave them delicious treats from their bakery.

The parents of the child would observe, a happy expression on their faces as they watched as the kind looking old person with big warm eyes feed their child a donut.

"Oh honey, look how cute that is," the mother would say.

But it would not be cute later, once it is time to go home and the child cannot be found.

Assumptions.

What a terrible, dreadful word.

This is what the preacher made. Saying that the Baker, who often struggled with keeping their old and frail hands to themselves when in the presence of children, would make it to the pearly gates in that great kingdom in the sky, praise God. That old, terrible Baker with the nice house, and the bakery on the right side of town with the busiest street, would somehow see heaven. What a sham.

Winter remembered her mothers funeral very well. A little too well. She remembered arriving to the small Georgian church in a limo with her dad, Spice, her mothers sister, Aunt Jude, her pop-pop, and a handful of other close relatives who she always saw at family gatherings. She sat between a snotty nosed Spice, and her stony faced father. Her father, although seeming pulled together, was holding her hand so tightly she thought her fingers would snap off. He kept silent the whole ride there. Everyone did. Even Spice, who always found a way to maintain a good mood and lift the spirits of others, did nothing but sit in his seat and try to keep a blank face.

Once they got there, everyone began to linger around the outside of the church, not ready to go inside and see what was being held in the room. Winter had held onto her father's hand, his big palm gently cupping her tiny one. She stared up at him, his teary eyes behind his big glasses, and wiggled her hand out of her grasp. Then she looked at Spice, who was trying to wipe his eyes without anyone noticing, and looked away. Without a word to anyone, she turned her back on them and stepped inside the Church alone.

When she entered, she found that the music had already started up and other family members and friends were there. They congregated all around the room, all gloomy and sad and not trying to focus too hard at the main show at the center of the room, resting on a high rise like a Goddess. An eternally resting Goddess.

Her dead Mother.

Winter could just barely make out her features from the distance, but she could still see her. Her soft dark red hair framing the sides of her face, and her pale skin illuminated by the lights of the sun streaming through the church. Her eyes forever closed in slumber. She was wearing one of her favorite green dresses, the one with the glittery exterior and A-line neck. It sparkled against the Sun, and made her mother look more like a princess than ever before.

Winter remembered bursting into tears. She rubbed her face once, trying to rid her chubby cheeks of the fatal liquid falling out of her eyes. But she could not stop. It would not stop. She let out a shriek and ran down the isle, her small, fat legs carrying her as fast as they could.

"Mommy!" she wailed. "Mommy, get out of there. Get out of there right now!"

The people all looked at her, but did nothing to stop her. She caught bits and pieces of their conversations as they watched her race to her mother.

"Oh, that poor child-"

"God help her-"

"So sad..."

"She's only a child. I can't imagine-"

She didn't care. She just kept going. She wanted her mom to wake up. She wanted her to step out of that... That thing. She wanted her to run her fingers through Winters long hair and put in into an intricate braid. She wanted her to kiss her cheek, and tell her that this wasn't real. That she could stop crying now, and she and her dad and Spice could go home because this was all over. That she was okay. She wanted her to hold her hand and look down at her with that glint in her eyes she got when she found something funny.

"Ain't nothin' happen to me, sugar bear," She would tell her. "Don't you start cryin' now. I'm alright, baby. I'm alright."

But that did not happen. Her mother didn't stir in her coffin. She was like a porcelain doll, forever still and forever beautiful. When Winter made it to the head of the coffin, she briefly noticed- from her very obvious height disadvantage, that her mother was not dead. She was napping. Her face was serene, like she was sleeping.

Although her chest did not rise and fall...

Oh well. That didn't matter.

She reached up her touched her mothers face. It was strangely cold and clammy, like she was stuck in a freezer for a few hours. Winter yanked her hand away and rubbed it to get the warmth back. But then, feeling guilty of her actions, she placed her hand back on her cheek and resisted the urge to pull away again.

"Time to wake up, mommy. It's time to go home." Her voice quivered as the words parted from her mouth.

Someone stepped beside her. He was a tall man, dressed smartly in a black suit and shiny black patent leather shoes. He looked down at Winter, his eyes an elegant shade of black. Although, the longer he looked at her, she noticed that his eyes started to... change. The black was retreating, and in its place was a reddish-orange glow. And his face was blurry, and the longer she looked at him, the blurrier he would become. She gaped, but did not step back. Her hand still rested on her mothers cheek, trying to warm up her cold skin as best she could.

The man looked away from Winter, and instead focused his attention back on her mother.

"Pity what happened to her," he said somberly. "Car accidents are always the worst. Messy. Nothing is ever elegant about them." He paused. "They cleaned her up well enough, though. She is as presentable as she will get," he said, but she wasn't sure if he was talking to her or to himself.

Her bottom lip trembled.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with my mommy. She just sleepin' is all," Winter said.

The man frowned. He unconsciously pulled at a lock of curly black hair that fell out of his neat man bun and tucked it behind his ear.

"You Georgian people with your accents and inaccurate form of speaking. I do hope you grow out of that some day, it's really unbecoming."

"What does that mean? Un-be-ed-coming."

"What? Why did you pronounce it like that?"

Her face scrunched. "Pre- nounce it like what?"

He looked back down at her, clearly annoyed.

"I must be going now. I'm sorry about your loss."

And then he was gone. And Winter was alone with her mother once more. But his words sunk into her, and wound it's ugly claws into her flesh.

I'm sorry for your loss. They cleaned her up well enough. Car accidents are always the worst. Messy.

She remembered her dad sitting her and Spice down one night, on the night their mother died, to tell them the news. That she had been in a terrible accident, and that she wasn't coming home. Ever.

She also remembered thinking that he was lying. That the tears running down his face were not real, and he wasn't telling the truth. Back then, they had lived out in Georgia, her mothers home town, in a large Victorian home that her mother hand decorated herself. It was a small town, and accidents were rare. Or they were rare.

Winter took her hand off of her mothers cheek again and looked at her a little closer. She began to notice small changes about her appearance that she didn't notice before. Like how her face was caked in concealer, and her cheeks were slightly sunken in, and how, even under the stain of red lipstick, her lips were chapped. She didn't look like she usually did. She looked... Wrong.

Someone latched their hand onto her shoulder. Winter looked up and found the comforting face of her father standing before her. He looked down at her sadly, his eyes glassy and gaze hard.

"You can't run off like that, Winter. I turn my back for two seconds and than the next thing I know, you're... Here. Don't do that again. Please."

She looked down, ashamed. "Sorry daddy," she mumbled.

He softly squeezed her shoulder and than pushed her behind him, where she found all of the people who accompanied her in the limo. Their faces were hard and somber, looking at the corpse of her mother. Her Aunt Jude sobbed, then covered her mouth with her hand. She looked at her dead sister, trying to calm her tears, but failing miserably.

Winter looked away. She didn't want to see her tears. She remembered that they didn't make her feel bad. They made her feel... Pity. And that pity made her feel uncomfortable.

Beside her, Spice grabbed onto her hand and squeezed. He decided to look down at the floor, and not the person in the coffin who he knew was his mother.

Suddenly there was a moan. A low, heart felt, sickening moan. Winter looked up, and, astonished, found her father leaning over the coffin. His face was directly in front of her Mother's, his eyes transfixed sadly on her. A tear slipped off of his cheek and landed on hers, where it promptly slid down, down, down, until it disappeared into the depths of the coffin.

"Sarah,"he moaned.

"Sarah... No, no no no. Sarah, I'm sorry... I'm sorry."

His knees gave out, and before she could blink, her dad was falling. Her Aunt and a few others rushed to catch him before he fell. They held him with steady arms as he freely sobbed, his face contorted in pain and his mouth trapped in an O as he cried.

"Sarah, Sarah! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Winter pushed away her memory from that day.

It had become an extreme source of her pain, even today. Seeing her dad so... Broken. Incomplete. It made her feel hollow. She hated how, as strong as her dad was, he had crumbled like a doll at the sight of their lifeless mother. Growing up, her dad had always been her rock. The man she cried to when she had a nightmare about their mother, when the other children use to pick on her, or when she just felt overwhelming sadness for no reason. In some ways, he was still her rock now. But it was different now from what it use to be. Before, he was a solid and familiar force that she knew she could always run to. But now he was more of a comfort. Someone she could use a hug from every now and then, and reassure herself that she was not alone. Because, if she didn't have anyone else, she knew that she would always have her dad.

Her memory from that day came back. The drive to the cemetery. It was solemn and gloomy, the clouds gathering at the center of the sky in a great color of gray and murky purple. The smell of freshly cut grass and ginger filled her nose, and she wondered if it was someone's perfume.

Looking at all the head stones, and knowing that there were dead bodies all around Winter unnerved her. It made her uncomfortable to be near so many of them at once, to know that they were bones and rot and maggots now. To know that they were buried in the ground, gone and forgotten, made something stir deep inside her.

Rage.

Rage that these people were dead. Rage that they once had lives, but now they were gone. Gone and never coming back.

Sadness quickly accompanied how she felt. She knew the same fate awaited her mother, except she knew that she would not forget. She would not let her become just a forgotten person, another tally mark on the list of dead bodies buried in the cemetery. She would be remembered. Someway, somehow. She would live.

.....

It was strange, yet oddly appropriate that Winter found herself in a cemetery.

Her eyes flashed open, and she took a deep breath. She felt the hardness of the ground she was laying on, the grass tickling her nose unpleasantly as she lay motionless. Her limbs were sore, and her hair, she knew, was wild. She sucked in another breath of air, trying to keep her breathing in check, because it felt like she could not get enough.

She coughed.

Butterflies erupted from her mouth. Gold, black, and red butterflies with big, shimmering wings and small bodies. She gasped and struggled to get up from the ground, her bones groaning in protest. When she was up, she stared at the butterflies, all of them going their separate ways and diminishing into the night.

For a moment, she stood stunned, watching the darkened sky. A few stars were dotted here and there, but not enough to show anything remarkable.

She looked back down and took in her surroundings.

Then regretted it.

She was in a grave yard. And not just any grave yard, but the graveyard. The one that her mother was buried in. The first one that she entered as a child. The one that ultimately made her decide that she hated graveyards and found nothing even remotely peaceful about them.

Pain seized her chest in one violent swoop. She took a step back and gazed all around her. Everywhere she looked, she saw headstones. They were everywhere. They stretched across the ground, over the hills, and disappearing into the horizon. It was like one giant tomb. All the dead bodies- all the bones and rotting flesh right under her feet- made her panic worse.

She had to get out of here.

Without another thought, Winter raced through the graveyard as fast as her legs would carry her. Her feet were bare, and slapped against the cool grass unpleasantly. She ignored the tingles that shot through her arms and legs and proceeded forward. She ran up a hill, which eventually sloped back down and than returned to a flat strip of land. She heaved as she ran up the small hill, a large oak tree with long twisted branches that reached towards the heavens loomed into view. Without much thought, she began to slow down. Her breath was rough, coming out more like a wheeze than actual breathing. She told herself that this was only a break. That she would proceed in a few minutes.

Winter made it to the base of the tree, but once she saw what was under it, she halted. There was another headstone. It was not quite new, yet not quite old either. With weary eyes, she slowly approached the stone and tried to read it despite the darkness. She knelt down on her knees, her knee caps burying uncomfortably into the cold ground.

She read the stone as best she could, but somehow she already knew what it would say.

In loving memory of Sarah Allison Reynolds
Mother, Wife, Sister, Friend
May you rise again

This was her mothers final resting place. She distinctly remembered her being buried here, under a large, shady tree, away from the rest of the dead. That comforted Winter only slightly.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She was suddenly thirsty. Very, very thirsty. Why was she here? She didn't need this right now. She needed her mom, but not like this. Not... Dead. Not buried six feet under the ground, cold and alone and gone forever. She didn't want that. She didn't need that.

Suddenly, the branches above her shook. She looked up and backed away, trying to make out what that sound was and if she had to make a run for it.

But then they stilled.

Winter waited a few moments, trying to see if whatever it was would move again. When it didn't, she slumped back on the ground and stared at the stone. Her mother had been reduced to... This. Death. She wished she was still alive. She wished she was with them again, being one big happy family. Being whole.

The tree stirred again.

And before Winter could make a move to back up, a man cloaked with the illusion of night plummeted down gracefully in front of her, a shiny silver sword placed firmly in his big gloved hand.

She screamed.