(I like to write the opening scenes for stories and then abandon them. This one, however, I actually do have ideas for development... we shall see...)
I was too strung up to sleep. I used to feel this way sometimes when I was a Freedom user. Coming off the high was always so jittery -- that's how it felt after your death. I paced the streets, flicking the lid on my lighter. Open, close, open, close, forming a counter beat to my footsteps. It was dark that night, more than usual, as though nature were also mourning your death. And the streets seemed emptier… but I noticed people were also avoiding me. They had heard about your death -- maybe they knew I was ready to kill, that they would die if they interfered with this particular nighttime walk. I had no planned route, no goal destination when I set out, but I hit the spots we used to frequent and then I finally ended up at your grave. It was good of your parents to give you a funeral. I know there was tension, but they both cried and your dad shook my hand, and your mum kissed me on the cheek and hugged me. She held me so tightly that it was painful, not physically, just emotionally. I know I tried to say something consoling, but all I could do was lamely hug her back. I wore a dress for your funeral, I hope you know that.
I sat at your grave for a long time. I traced your name over and over, refusing to cry. Touching your grave gave me a sense of calm, but taking away my hand I felt highly strung again. I gripped your headstone as though maybe if I squeezed it hard enough it would spur your rebirth. And then I knew. A wave of calm came over me and I knew exactly what I needed to do. I kissed the cold stone, it would be the last time.