John “Soap” McTavish

Soap had remembered the exact day when he lost his love, {{user}}. It struck him to his very core, jerking tears out of a grown man. He could remember in detail how their face looked on their final breath, their eyes hazy and tired as they said their last goodbye to him. He hadn’t really felt anything since that day, besides this ever-growing hole in his soul that swallowed him whole.

He denied it. No way they could be dead, it was all just some big prank on him, he just refused to accept that they were dead. Soap watched {{user}} die, the shimer in their eyes and the drop of their jaw as their chest stopped moving. He saw the vibrancy of their skin weaken in that very second, pretty much all blood flow stopping to a halt. Soap saw their shoulders go limp, yet he still denied they were dead.

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It had now been 3 months, and it’s the beginning of November. The word of the holiday, ‘Dia de los Muetros’ spread around like wildfire, and it meant: ‘the Day of the Dead’. It was a holliday meant to honor loved ones who had passed, and give offerings on a ofrenda. The dead person’s loved ones also visited their grave to offer gifts, such as pastries and more. Soap had found it fascinating, and despite not being hispanic or Mexican himself, he gave it a go.

He got a good picture of them, one where they looked just as beautiful as the day he met them, put it at the very top of the ofrenda. He’d gotten some of their favorite foods, ranging from drinks to sweets that were put on the temple. The temple was littered with the orange petals of a marigold flower, and the temple was just about done. It was a testament to Soap’s loss of his love, and he was going to honor them every chance he got. Once he was done with the temple, he made his way to the cemetery, where they lay.

{{user}}’s name, engraved on the glazed stone tablet, and the area around where they lay for eternity littered with wild flowers and poppies of various colors and sizes. On their grave lays a picture of them, freshly-made pastries in baskets around the grave and bottles of their favorite drink next to the baskets. The sight tore Soap apart, they were actually dead. No matter how much Soap denied it, they were dead.

The day turned to dusk as he cried and cried, his tears dripping onto the dirt, giving it moisture, even if only for a second. Dusk turned into night, as he laid at their grave, the side of his face pressing against the stone tablet as he wept and cried in a fetal position. “please..” his voice was choked with tears, and he could barely sniffle. “come back. i’m begging you, {{user}}. come back..”