You were forced to murder me in loyalty to your keeper, and yet you still walk past my grave to enjoy my fruit. I can still see tiny glimmers of your life, under the robotic stare, but they are quickly stilled by your trance. I shiver from the bitter iciness that has become you, even these many years after my death. The grip he has, it’s terrifying. Why did you do this? Why let him win? I remember our bond, I cherish our memories, but they are fading along with my ashes. Sometimes when you pass my tomb, I don’t even recognize you. Do you see me? Do you recall what you did? Does it matter?
The gates are closing. Have you noticed that? On your last visit, you could barely squeeze through the thorn covered gate. The last blooms have died and rotted since then, and the gates are sealing shut. The fog has rolled in and with it a darkness that numbs my once warm and happy feelings for you.
It’s a funny contrast, seeing my beautiful fruit surrounded by all of this midnight cover. It intensifies their loveliness to me and whispers in my ear that nothing else matters. Not anymore. When I start to believe that, I see light. Not near the gates, those are sealed now and damaged beyond repair. It made me sad once, but I’m happy to have the ugliness locked out. My dust can swirl around my treasure, soaking up their glory and be rebuilt. New memories replace the bad, and as my mind and body become whole again, it is your ashes that take my place.
I promise to keep the thorns away from your tombstone. I will plant flowers there and tell stories of how you used to be, before you were strung up and forced to live life as the walking dead. Some days I will miss you and feel remorse, but mostly my wounds remind me why you are here, and I know it was your choice.