I was trying to write and this came out of nowhere!

And now I am going to have to work this one. I have some idea about where its going, but this is the start. What do you think?
“Mama, I think I’m broken.”
She sat on the cold hard ground, muddy wetness sinking thought the material of her black skirt as she leaned against the solid chill of the tombstone. It felt just like touching a block of cold dead ice.
“There is something wrong with me. I don’t belong here. And I’m so confused—I don’t know what I am doing anymore.”
Her tears were breaking thought, sounding in the voice she forcing to hold steady.
“I should be happy,” she continued, struggling for control. “Everything has been hard, but not too hard. I am strong enough to cope—but mama, I am beginning to regret all the times I prayed for strength. How can you know you have strength until you are tested… Mama, I’m tired of being tested.”
As she spoke, her head dipped lower and lower until the fever hot skin of her forehead touched the stone she was talking too. The cold caress drew the heat away, almost like a mother’s touch.
“Mama, I don’t think I can do this an–anymore—“ A escaped sob broke her words. And that’s what did it. It was like all the screams and cries inside of her were waiting for one chink in her amour to break free. And break free they did, her sobs coming with such force that they bent her over with their force, they made her stomach muscles spasm in pain, they tore from her throat leaving her feeling weak and bloody and useless.
She was a useless mass of flesh and blood, cowering against a damn tombstone pretending that it was her mother.
“I can’t—I can-t—“ she tried to explain but could only shake her head—the words refused to come.
So he sat there, crying out her agony to an unfeeling slab of rock and getting more comfort there than she ever had in her lifetime.
“Mama—“ her voice was horse now, her throat throbbing and rough as the sobs continued to come. “Mama—“
She didn’t know how long she sat there, her eyes swollen and burning, her nose running, her mouth parched. She sat there until the tears refused to come anymore, until there were none left and still she sat and helplessness and shame washed over her in waves.
“Bye, Mama,” she whispered softly, finally pulling herself together enough to move. Her ass was wet from sitting, her muscles stiff to the point where it took some effort for her to move.
Achingly slow, she rose to her feet and touched the top of the tombstone, brushing her fingers against the huge angle in flight engraved on the stone.

Elaine Corbis

Mother to her brood,

Mother to us all

She turned away, muttering softly, “Thank you. I wish you were mine.”
Head hanging low in shame that she had to stoop to finding comfort in some dead strangers cold embrace, she turned and slowly made her way out of the cemetery—unbeknownst that a pair of solid black eyes watched her every move, that large hand clutching a bouquet of mums and white tulips, dead leaves, harebell purple hyacinth, Adonis, poppies, and dark crimson roses bound together in hemp watched her every move.
They watched as the broken figure slowly shuffled from the resting place of the dead before laying his offering of flowers at the base of the tombstone where the poor child had bled out her pain.
Silently, the figure dressed in black turned and faded into the shoadows.

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