Fear made flesh

“An insatiable monster”

At sixteen, I was a very introverted girl who had no desire — or perhaps simply didn’t know how to make friends or communicate normally with peers or other people. Back in my youth, there were many subcultures: punks, emos, ravers, metalheads, and plenty of other similar and sometimes overlapping groups of young people. I identified as a goth. Black clothing, dark makeup, messy hair, gloomy music, and the whole gothic theme with hints of mysticism and the macabre drew me in deeply.

We were often mistaken for emos — or rather, those who tried to pass themselves off as emos — since I greatly admired true emos for their worldview. They were against alcohol, drugs, and tobacco, refrained from casual sexual relationships, never betrayed their ideals, and, with their creative, albeit somewhat sensitive, souls, they were dedicated to helping nature and its creatures. I deeply respected them for their protest against the “gray and monotonous” life —until their culture was overtaken by cheap imitators, depressed kids who only tarnished this beautiful subculture. These imitators eventually overwhelmed it with their new ideas of how cruel and unjust the world was to them, poor souls.

The confusion between us and emos stemmed from our shared fascination with the afterlife, and it annoyed me to no end. It infuriated me that our profound and truly majestic reflections on death were compared to the whining of these pseudo-emos about wanting to die. Unlike them, we didn’t wish for death. All we sought was to understand what happens to the soul after its outer shell ceases to resist and, ultimately, breathe. We delved into the knowledge of mysticism, demonology, and mythology, while our cheap imitators slit their wrists in a desperate cry for attention.

My parents never showed interest in what their daughter was up to, what she was passionate about, or where she wandered. They only cared about good grades in my report card, which I dutifully provided before heading to the cemetery. There’s a reason people fear such places. Have you ever wondered why you feel uneasy there? Why your heart starts racing at the sight of a simple grave? Why your soul feels heavy and unnerved at the thought of stumbling upon a cemetery at night? I never did.

I felt at peace in the company of silent gravestones, each telling me its own story as I sketched, wrote in my journal, or simply strolled along the narrow paths between them, studying the familiar photographs of those who now rested lifelessly three meters beneath me. The souls of the dead never judge, never say anything cruel or hurtful, unlike ordinary people who couldn’t understand my passions. The atmosphere of quiet, calm, and yet something oppressively somber relaxed me far more than house parties with strangers or being locked away in four walls at home in complete solitude — a solitude I never felt in cemeteries. There, I was never alone.

It was the same familiar ritual again: coming to that place every evening. It repeated once more. Josh — the watchman, a kind uncle with thick mustache and a large belly — greeted me every time he noticed my figure dressed entirely in black, stepping out of his small guardroom. We had known each other for quite a while, and by our unspoken agreement, I would bring him sandwiches, and he would let me stay there until eleven at the latest. I didn’t mind. After all, I didn’t want to risk having problems with my parents because of this.

“Good evening, Mister Josh. Here you go,” I handed the watchman a tray from my black leather bag, “Today it’s sandwiches with tomatoes, sausage, and slices of cheese.”

“Thank you, Lira. Come on in, make yourself at,” he chuckled: "home."

“At home...” I repeated thoughtfully, inhaling the cool autumn breeze as I stepped along the well-trodden but still green path. It was almost always green here: tall and mighty trees stretched from the cemetery itself into the dense forest for miles, stubbornly refusing to shed their leaves. Flowers and sparse grass poked through the brickwork near some graves, and the tombstones themselves sometimes became so overgrown that it was impossible to tell who was buried there, forgotten by everyone. I would tidy them up myself, feeling it was my duty to the departed.

Usually, by the time I arrived, there was no one else around. But this time, things didn’t go as planned. Closer to the end of the cemetery, I noticed a figure — a boy, I guessed — wandering among the stones, studying them closely. Deciding it was none of my business, I settled on a bench illuminated by a soft, dim light and began drawing in my sketchbook.

After a few minutes, I flinched at a sudden “Hi” directed at me. I’d been so absorbed in my drawing that I hadn’t noticed the boy sitting next to me, examining my doodles.

“Hi,” I responded quietly, hoping to end the conversation there, but he had other plans.

“I’m Mark. What’s your name?”

"Valeria."

He sat quietly for a few moments, glancing at me and then at my sketchbook. I can’t say it was a pleasant experience, but no one seemed to care about my opinion.

“You draw? Looks good. I also like your style. Are you a goth? As you can see, I am too.” he spread his arms, showing off his black cape, T-shirt, and jeans in the same color.

“Thanks for the compliment on my drawing. Yes, I’m a goth. Your outfit isn’t bad either.”

“Thanks.”

After exchanging a few more meaningless and formal phrases, we switched to a topic that intrigued us both as admirers of all things dark and strange. We got so engrossed in our conversation that we lost track of time, only noticing how late it was when the watchman approached us.

“Hey, Lira, I didn’t see you sitting here with a guy. I don’t mean to interrupt, but it’s already half past eleven. Time to get going — your parents are probably waiting for you both.”

“Alright, Mister Josh, we’re leaving,” I grabbed my bag and was heading toward the exit when I heard my name.