The Cemetery

With every move my family made, I was sure to search out the nearest cemetery. Cemeteries were the only place I felt at home. Mainly due to the fact they were the same no matter where I lived. I often made up stories about the names and families I found in cemeteries. What were their lives really like? Where were they born? Did they have any siblings? Where did they work? I never really made any friends at school because we moved constantly so what was the point? My parents never questioned where I spent my free time, partially because I think they wanted to believe I had friends.  

I will forever remember the day I was cured from ever visiting a cemetery again. It was nearing dusk and I was about to head toward home when the minivan pulled in. I knew the driver wouldn’t be able to see me since I was purposefully sitting out of sight. The longer the minivan slowly cruised the cemetery, the more curious I became. I knew I should be nervous, but my curiosity got the best of me. When the driver finally stopped, it suddenly occurred to me what might be happening. True to every horror story I have ever read, the body tumbled out of the back of the minivan before it sped away. What I wasn’t expecting was to be caught red handed and accused of murder. Especially when I knew the murderer was my father.