Young Writers Group discussion

Putting my writing here (hopefully when it's good enough for posting! If it isn't, I suppose it won't last).

The crowds had departed long ago, but Brian still stood staring at the gravestone of Margaret Stringer. Even his father had left.
Full of life, was the beginning of the epitaph engraved on the stone he had read, by now, at least a hundred times. A fundamental member of society, who helped humanity take yet another step further.
That was it. The shittiest epitaph he had ever read in his life. She deserved more. Again, Brian thought of how she had been there for him when she could, how she had nurtured him through childhood, comforted him, consoled him in his darkest moments… And this was what she got.
He stood alone in the indoor cemetery; the graves and accompanying gravestones had been placed inside so that, in a level four or five storm, they would not be parted. A light tropical drizzle had started outside and, glancing up, he saw wetness spreading across the glass roof of the cemetery.
His old tears had dried, but now he felt more surfacing in his eyes. He stood at the foot of the grave, his mother’s final resting place. He wondered how long she would lie here – perhaps forever. It didn’t matter to him. The grave, Brian thought, is simply a marker to show and respect the body that lies beneath it. The body, that of his mother, mattered as much to him as the gravestone. It was the soul, the soul that inhabited and brought life to the body – that was what he cared about, and now it was gone. And then again, if the gravestone didn’t matter, then why was he still here?
She deserved more. The same thoughts rang through his head, rebounded off the walls of his mind and rang through again in some sick, eternal echo. I didn’t treat her well enough, Brian thought, for what she did for me. She didn’t deserve my Father. Why couldn’t it be him – Jonathan Stringer – lying beneath that stone, instead of her?
He shut away the unsavory thoughts that the three echoing words in his head brought. Each time the three words rebounded they seemed to mutate, bring up something more unsavory or depressing and spit it at his conscience.
She deserved more.
He shut his eyes, a moment too late, and a hot tear rolled down his cheek. He glanced over his shoulder to the sound of leather shoes clacking against white tiles.
The cemetery owner, Damien Mort, a formal man in a grim black suit stood across the artificial lawn with his hands behind his back. “Mister Stringer,” Mort’s voice echoed around the place, “We will be closing shortly.”
Brian nodded, took one last glance at the grave of Margaret Stringer, and then allowed himself to be guided out of the building by Mort.
“My condolences once again,” Mort said, standing in the doorway.
Brian stood under the awning over the doors, listening to the soft pitter-patter of the rain.
The cemetery owner asked, “Can I give you a piece of advice, Mr Stringer?”
Brian turned to face Mort and shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers – a part of the funeral outfit he wore, which he hated. “Sure.” He said, hollowly.
“Regret is a powerful thing,” Mort said. “Don’t let it eat at you, nor consume you; what’s passed is past. Let it guide you to be better, to do better, make it into a positive force. But don’t dwell on it too much.”
Brian tried to manage a smile, instead nodded. “Thanks.”
“Have a good day, Mr Stringer.”
With that, the cemetery owner disappeared behind heavy glass doors.
Everything was wet. A hovercar hummed past, displacing puddles of water and spreading them across the road.
What a cliché, he thought, staring idly at the rain. He considered going down to the local bar and buying a drink. No, he didn’t drink, hadn’t in years. He wasn’t going to start now. He produced his phone from a trouser pocket and switched it on, faced several missed calls and texts from almost everyone he knew. He swiped to dismiss, then brought up Riley from his contacts. His finger hovered over the green call icon.
He wanted her, someone who cared, or was at least capable of showing it. But then again, she wouldn’t exactly fill-
Something happy, he thought, something fun. What’s something fun I can do?
And then he realized that, really, there was nothing fun in his life. Four words like a bucket of ice-cold water hit him. There never had been. Fun, true happiness, there never had been. Perhaps there had been a long time ago, longer than he could recall.
The last of the cemetery staff, all in their dark suits, began filing out of the building.
Brian put his phone back in his pocket.
“Do you need a lift home, Mr Stringer?” Mort’s clear, practised voice sounded from behind Brian. He was sure it had been crafted to sound just compassionate enough, whilst still retaining its former vigour.
“No thanks,” Brian said, turning to face the old man who was holding a black leather briefcase – expensive. “I’m just fine here; I could watch the rain all day.”
“That’s what I’m scared about,” said Mort. “The only time you’ve moved in the past few hours is when I told you we were closing. For all I know you could still be here at midnight.”
“Well, I appreciate the thought.”
“Thank me by heeding what I told you, Mr Stringer. You look like you could use it.”
Brian nodded.
“Good evening,” said the cemetery owner.
After Mort had walked four paces, Brian said, “I feel guilt. There were a lot of things I didn’t do that I should’ve done.”
The cemetery owner paused and turned, said. “It’s too late to fix now, to make amends. That’s life and there’s nothing you can do about it. Does the term carpe diem mean anything to you, Mr Stringer?”
“Yeah,” Brian said – he remembered the term, but not from where. “That’s ancient Latin, right? Seize the day.”
Mort nodded. “That’s right. Seize the day, Mr Stringer. You don’t have the time to dwell on that thought, to let regret, doubt, guilt or anger consume you. It is a waste of perfect happiness. You get me?”
Brian nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, thanks.”
Brian could tell Mort gave a smile, even though his moustache hid it. A moment passed, and then the cemetery owner had vanished behind the corner of the building.
Carpe Diem. He mulled the two words over in his head, then took his phone out from his pocket and called Riley.

“Brian, I heard about what happened this morning, I tried calling more than once, but-“
“I turned it off for the funeral,” Brian lied to the phone. He’d turned it off earlier. Now he wished he hadn’t, that he’d accepted the comfort – there were many times he’d rejected support, to face grief or hurt on his own – it was some unhealthy strive for non-dependence and individuality he regretted acting upon.
He was walking home along a street of independent business stores. The rain continued. His black hair was soaked through; it normally curved neatly over his forehead, but now the longest of it was interfering with the corner of his left eye.
“Hey, Brian,” she said tenderly, “You okay?”
He thought, how do they do it? One phrase – no, it wasn’t the phrase, more the tone of voice. In one sentence she brought up all the suppressed emotions of the past few hours, emotions that rushed upwards as if looking for escape from a container sealed shut. The emotions struck a blow at him, and he slumped against the brick wall of an apartment block as if the blow had been real.
“Look, if you…” her voice trailed off.
He was crying into the receiver. “I hate myself,” he murmured. His voice was shrill and broken.
“What for?” she asked.
“I, I – I didn’t tell her I,” A teardrop rolled down his face, distinguishable from the rain only by heat. “She deserved,” he took a breath, “so much more.”
“Brian, it isn’t your fault.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but he knew he was hearing the truth.
“Hon,” she said, “Life’s been harsh on you, it’s unfair, – You and I know that – but don’t be let it make you be harsh on yourself. You don’t deserve it.”
He calmed down. Down the street, fading sun shone off silver curtains of rain blown by the wind. “Yeah…” he said. “Thanks, Riley.”
“Where are you?” she asked, with the care and tenderness he felt he so badly needed.
“Sixty, no…” he glanced at the street sign, “Fifty-third South. Not far from the cemetery there.”
“You want me to pick you up?”
He looked at himself. “I’m drenched… I’ll be home in ten minutes.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be there then.”
He hung up, grazed his wrist against the concrete wall as he pocketed the phone.
A blue-grey hovercar droned past, headlights glaring. It halted a few meters on, and then reversed back to Brian. The window slid down and the wrinkled head of Damien Mort peered out.
The cemetery owner said irritably, “I’m obligating myself to drive you home. Get in.”
Brian crossed over to the car and got in the back seat, closing the door behind him. The hovercar was leather seated – expensively – and a fluorescent shone overhead.
“Now, do I need to call someone you know to make sure you get inside and warm yourself up?” Mort asked.
Brian then shivered and realized how cold he was, goose bumps rippled up his arm. “I’ve already called someone,” he said.
Mort jerked the wheel to the left. The hovercar drifted and swerved so it was facing straight by the time it passed the corner. He stepped on the accelerator and the car continued forward.
Brian rested his head uncomfortably against the glass window of the hovercar. He watched with newfound ease the silver curtains of rain slowly rippling, glimmering, dancing in the fading light.