Crying Within An Empty Grave

[SimonW]

Chapter 1: The Unhappy Day...


My mother died last month. It was a normal day. My dad had just picked me up from school when we found her collapsed upon the Kitchen floor. My Dad told me to call an ambulance but I knew it was only an excuse. He did not want me to see her like that. But the image had already been burnt in my mind. To me there was no escape from Death, not when I saw how pale and still she had looked just before I had left to do as my Dad told me.

But that was over a month ago. We are at her funeral. I wore my regulation school clothes. Usually I would not have bothered but Mum was so proud when I was accepted into Priggs Private High School For Boys last year.
It rained as our local Vicar read from The Bible in the graveyard. I did not pay much attention to him, my mind felt numb. I held my white rose which was contrasted to the parade of black garments everybody was wearing.
After finishing his speech, the Vicar made the Cross symbol and then we all lined up to drop in our flowers.
I was soaked through by the rain, the water mixing with my tears as I held out my rose and dropped it into the open grave of my mother. The rose hit her closed coffin and I turned away with great difficulty, feeling the comforting hand of my father upon my shoulder.

I needed the comfort my father gave me. It had helped steady my nerves. The past month had not been a particularly good one for me.
Especially when the older boys bullied me at school. But I was used to that, it was like second nature at Priggs.
But when one day you hear somebody shout out that your mother was better off dead, you just snap.
That incident left me and the other boy with bruises and the Dean to dish out punishment upon the two of us.
"Never have I seen this sort of behaviour before at Priggs," he had uttered, but he was not very on the ball because a thing like this was mostly commonplace in the schoolyard.
But I had kept my mouth shut because it was better that way. We got rapped on the knuckles and were sent a letter to deliver to our parents. I never showed my dad the letter because it would just upset him more.
A flash of lightning brought me back to the present, in the rain at the cemetery. I left my father's side and watched the men start hefting dirt to fill the hole that held my mother's coffin. I only wish there was a way they could fill the hole within my heart.

"Derek, how is he coping?" asked Aunt Delores to Chris's father.
"Bad, as you can imagine," replied back Derek with a serious but grave tone.
Aunt Delores seemed ill at ease of her less then modest banter and lowered her head slightly.
"Of course it is, Derek. I'm sorry...such a tragic thing," muttered Aunt Delores. "My sister was a great woman..."
"She still is!" snapped out Derek with vigour.
Aunt Delores glanced up and looked at the eyes of Derek. His eyes were ones of intense conviction.
"Yes, she is," said Aunt Delores after a second or two had passed between her and her brother-in-law.
The rain had cascaded down Aunt Delores' black tacky umbrella as another moment of silence passed between the two of them.

I had watched my Aunt and Dad talking. There was no need for me to stay. I had turned from the grave of my mother and ran over to a large tree to escape the rain.

Aunt Delores gave her attention to the pitter patter of running feet.
She gazed over as Chris was running from the grave of her sister to a large tree.
'Poor child, he must be suffering so,' she thought to herself.
"Derek, you know if you ever neeed anyone to help you with Chris..." she began speaking but Derek interrupted her again.
"Chris will be fine. He just needs to not dwell on it," hissed out Derek with an almost vindictive tongue.
Ever since Chris was born Aunt Delores had a certain fascination with him. The last thing Derek needed was the old busybody making an impression on his twelve year old son.
Aunt Delores seemed to puff up slightly in protest but from the look Derek gave her, the diminutive woman settled herself once more with a sigh and just turned and left Derek in the rain.

(to be continued...)

 

[CORIN THUNDERFIST II]

An fascinating if somewhat gloomy start. I am intrigued as to what is going to happen next. Your portayal of characters is most interesting, and quite a mixture: Chris, struggling to cope with his tragic loss, his father who is no doubt equally upset, but having to remain strong for his son's sake, bullying pupils at his school, an unsympathetic headmaster, and the enigmatic Aunt Delores, whom it appears may have an agenda of her own for Chris, good or bad I cannot say yet.

 

[Copperfox]

The opening lines carried me to the morning when my Janalee had her fatal heart attack. When the paramedics were working on her, one of them said to the other that she was "agonal"--as if I wouldn't know what it meant. I knew.

The Dean is a character I've seen too often in real life. Such people want to be GIVEN CREDIT FOR managing things well, but in fact they NEVER bother getting at the truth of incidents. They take shortcuts which remedy nothing. For instance, when my daughter Annemarie--born in Korea--was little, she was at a daycare place where all the other children ganged up on her with racist slurs. Naturally enough, she complained of this to the SUPPOSEDLY Christian woman in charge of the place. But this woman, instead of DEALING WITH the cruelty of those bigoted brats, took the path of least resistance--and blamed MY DAUGHTER for "tattling!" Needless to say, Mary and I never entrusted our little girl to THAT phony-baloney again.

 

[SimonW]

(chapter 1, part 2)

I leant against the tree, the sound of the raindrops acting as a soothing remedy to my depressed state of mind.
Rubbing my wet black sleeve against my eyes to brush away my tears I barely noticed my Aunt Delores walking away from my dad in what appeared to be a perplexed manner. Her walk reminded me of a penguin waddle sometimes.
But this was no time to think of such things. My mother died a month ago to this day, that was what weighed upon my heavy heart.
I remained where I was for several minutes before dad finally called me over to the black car we rented for the funeral.
I trudged over to the car. The wet ground beneath my feet seemed to just make me think it was another miserable day.
Another lightning flash broke within the clouds as I got into the back seat, my dad following me inside the dry car.
The driver drove us back home. It was a good distance from the cemetary and the silence between me and my dad could have been cut through with a knife. When we were depressed we did not talk much. Mum was the exact opposite. She just talked and laughed without a care in the world. But I wondered sometimes if that was just a front...for the sake of my dad and me. Well, now I would never know whether the smile she gave me was real or fake.
We soon arrived home, a progression of cars already outside with relatives waiting inside for the after-funeral party to begin.

Our home was a modest mansion. I used to think of it as a castle when I was younger. But amidst the pouring rain and dark clouds, the solitary marble granite structure seemed to have lost the pristine look I once thought it had. The stone statuettes above the pillar entranceway seemed twisted to me now.
The depressing drones of black-dressed bodies of people entering the main doors as we drove up to the main entrance were like parasites in my eyes. It was no secret we were “well off”, at least that is what some of my relatives said in the past. I sensed hostility in the family but I never questioned it, not when my Mum was there with that smile of happiness on her face. But that smile was no longer able to greet me and I could see everything in truth. My family was rich and spoiled. And nobody liked it that my Grandfather had left all he had to my mum.
The driver stopped the car outside the front entrance. There were a good couple of cars there already. All the cars were black and taking up the space that is our home.
As my Dad and I stepped out into the pouring rain and another growl of thunder rolled by, it seemed like everything stopped for a few seconds. In those few instances as the lightning flashed I could see the veil of childlike innocence lifted from my eyes as those whom were about to enter stopped and parted so my Dad and I could pass.


(to be continued...)

 

[CORIN THUNDERFIST II]

The Dean is a character I've seen too often in real life. Such people want to be GIVEN CREDIT FOR managing things well, but in fact they NEVER bother getting at the truth of incidents. They take shortcuts which remedy nothing. For instance, when my daughter Annemarie--born in Korea--was little, she was at a daycare place where all the other children ganged up on her with racist slurs. Naturally enough, she complained of this to the SUPPOSEDLY Christian woman in charge of the place. But this woman, instead of DEALING WITH the cruelty of those bigoted brats, took the path of least resistance--and blamed MY DAUGHTER for "tattling!" Needless to say, Mary and I never entrusted our little girl to THAT phony-baloney again.

Unfortunately, there are too many people like this in positions of authority: personally, I wouldn't trust some of them to run a whelk stall on Brighton sea front!

(chapter 1, part 2)
The depressing drones of black-dressed bodies of people entering the main doors as we drove up to the main entrance were like parasites in my eyes. It was no secret we were “well off”, at least that is what some of my relatives said in the past. I sensed hostility in the family but I never questioned it, not when my Mum was there with that smile of happiness on her face. But that smile was no longer able to greet me and I could see everything in truth. My family was rich and spoiled. And nobody liked it that my Grandfather had left all he had to my mum.

Parasites is a good word to describe them! Unfortunately, this is a scene which has been repeated far too often over the years. Instead of being there as aomfort and help to the bereaved, these type of people only come crawling out of the woodwork or from under their stones at such times in order to grab what they can, like vultures!

 

[SimonW]

Parasites is a good word to describe them! Unfortunately, this is a scene which has been repeated far too often over the years. Instead of being there as a comfort and help to the bereaved, these type of people only come crawling out of the woodwork or from under their stones at such times in order to grab what they can, like vultures!

Glad to see you take a calm approach to it.
Believe me when I say, it will only get worse on in. I have yet to type up more so to add another part. But I shall get to it very soon.

 

[SimonW]

Well, sooner than I thought. Here be more.

(chapter 1, part 3)


The multitude of people wandered in after my Dad and I passed beneath the huge double doors that led to the Main Hall. I could see the flamboyantly dressed in black women with cocktails in their hands, the gaiety of the occasion evident upon the corners of their mouths into almost superficial smiles. The Main Hall was lavished in wreaths and bundles of flowers, mostly the common Tulip that one could find at a dime store. Yes, it was evident my relatives spent as little as possible for my mother’s sake. As soon as my father entered with his somber face, the atmosphere changed for the worse, everybody stopped drinking and talking to glance at my father and me in our wet tuxedos dripping rain water upon the red carpet that led to the double doors out front.
I did not glance at my father as he took a hold of my hand. I followed him with determined conviction past the gawping faces of our friends and relatives, even our social friends deemed it wise not to say anything.
We made our way to the bottom of the Grand Stairway that led to the second level of our mansion, draped with a dark blue rug and a marble banister that led curving upwards.
A steward held a tray of glasses filled with champagne. He seemed nervous at our appearance but tried his best not to let it be noticed. But a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his clean-shaven face. It disappeared down his starched white collar as my father raised his free hand and took hold of one of the glasses offered.
Lifting it, he turned back with me in tow towards the assembled company now in front of us.


“I know how you all think of me. But this is not a happy occasion. It is only for the sake of my wife that I accept you here today. She always enjoyed a party,” muttered Derek to the huddled mass in front of him and his son Chris.
Derek was a simple man. He did not enjoy socializing and his dearly departed wife knew it. But he did it for her sake. It was what she would have wanted and that was all that mattered to Derek, making his wife happy.
So, despite the detestation within his eyes, Derek urged himself to raise his glass full of champagne above his head in a gesture of a toast.
The other “guests” did likewise, eager to please the host of the “party”. The troubled and doubtful looks subsided as the drinking began once again. Nearly nary a lip was dry of liquid aside from Chris, whom did not partake of alcoholic beverages. Besides, Derek knew that his son was probably not in the mood to drink to his mother’s death. Derek allowed himself to lower the glass but could not bring himself to drink from his own toast. Instead, as the watchful eyes of those that went back to drinking could see, Derek and his son turned and left up the staircase behind them. No, today was not a day of merriment at all. But with these people, it was surely a day that was a possibility only.


End of Chapter 1.

 

[Copperfox]

>> I could see the flamboyantly dressed in black women with cocktails in their hands, the gaiety of the occasion evident upon the corners of their mouths into almost superficial smiles.

Now, this brings to mind a phenomenon which I have the dubious privilege of knowing first-hand, pertaining to the whole business of saying goodbye to a deceased person.

At any such gathering as you describe, there might for instance be one man who genuinely loved the departed one, indeed who did everything he could to help and comfort her while she was alive. He wishes that she were still here, only healed of all harm; but since she HAS been taken away, he takes what comfort he can from the knowledge that he did right by her while she was around. And this being so, he may allow himself the relief of being amused by some joke. At the same time, there could be another man in the same room who is being shallow and superficial because he's ALWAYS shallow and superficial; he was out for his own pleasure while the deceased was living, and he STILL is out for his own pleasure now that she's gone.

These two men are profoundly different from each other in moral character; and yet, snapshot glimpses of them both, on this occasion, may not REVEAL any of the difference.

 

[SimonW]

Chapter Two...

Chapter Two: Such Is The Will...



I found myself in my lavishly decorated bedroom. It was obvious my father had had enough of today’s proceedings. I felt the same way. I just wanted to curl up in my bed and cry. But I knew that would solve nothing. My mother would still be dead. She would not be able to come into my room anymore and sit beside me on my bed whilst comforting me by placing her hand on my shoulder until I hugged her to feel better.
I sat in my wet tuxedo upon my quilted silk laced bed cover that was arranged neatly upon my bed. Grabbing one of my blue satin pillows I held it against my drenched body, the water lightly staining it with ease but I didn’t care. I wanted to hold it against me, like I held her when I was little. Her own satin dresses were a comfort to me. I never knew my tears would cause stains but my mother never seemed to care. Her smile at me as I looked up with a tear-stained face seemed to make everything better. But, I knew that was gone too. It just wasn’t the same.
I felt anger well up inside me. Why did she have to die?? Why? Why?? WHY???
I clenched the pillow in the palm of my hand and with as much strength I could muster, I threw it in a fit of rage. I watched as it hit the shut white painted with gold-encrusted door handle door of my bedroom and crumple to the ground.
Breathing heavily, I felt my rage subside, my anger fading as I felt the grief returning in my heavy heart. I started to cry, my hands wiped the tears away furiously as I tried to get a grip on my emotions. I could not cry today, it was not a day that needed more tears. I needed to change my clothes. I knew the worst of the day was yet to come. I dreaded it but knew I had to face my relatives once more. For today was also the reading of my mother’s will.


“Good afternoon, everyone. I shall skip the formalities and get down to business, shall I?” asked solemnly Hubert Miles, the lawyer that held the deceased’s last will and testament.
A high-priced lawyer of great renown with his own firm situated in the small city town that Chris and Derek lived. Hubert Miles is the staunch backbone of the community and is a no-nonsense and old fashioned man. In fact, he was also the lawyer of the deceased’s father, having been a trusted friend of the respectable member that left everything he had to his youngest daughter. But Hubert did not like to dwell on sentimentality, especially at a serious time like this.
Having waited a few seconds, the sixty-five year old lawyer took the opportunity to take a quick glance over his tilted down glasses that he wore for reading, at the gathered party of relations of the deceased at his long chestnut-colored wooden table.
A surly-looking young man was to the left of Hubert Miles, his black over-coat almost obscuring his bristled and uncouth slightly protruding chin as he seemed to be uninterested from behind his blue eyes at the lawyer. The young man tussled his already messed up jet black hair as the lawyer’s eyes moved on.


(to be continued...)

 

[Copperfox]

The way your protagonist feels in this installment is not unlike the way I felt after my first wife's long, painful death. It was in this condition that the Holy Spirit guided me straight to Matthew 11:6 -- "And blessed is he who does not take offense at Me."

As for wills -- yuck! When I was in the process of not succeeding in law school, one thing I did learn very well was: that's its appalling how often a person's death will serve as a signal for his family members to leap at each other's throats.

 

[SimonW]

The way your protagonist feels in this installment is not unlike the way I felt after my first wife's long, painful death. It was in this condition that the Holy Spirit guided me straight to Matthew 11:6 -- "And blessed is he who does not take offense at Me."

As for wills -- yuck! When I was in the process of not succeeding in law school, one thing I did learn very well was: that's its appalling how often a person's death will serve as a signal for his family members to leap at each other's throats.

To answer simply: "Welcome to this thing called Life."

Well, I can only say for a fact it was NOT due to the "family" that the will was to be the same day of the funeral. But as you can probably guess, they seem indifferant enough to not object about it.

 

[CORIN THUNDERFIST II]

It certainly doesn't seemed to have discouraged them from crawling out of the woodwork, or from under their various stones. The vultures have gathered!

 

[SimonW]

It certainly doesn't seemed to have discouraged them from crawling out of the woodwork, or from under their various stones. The vultures have gathered!

Yes, they have gathered. As to what happens next, I can not say. For I have yet to write it up.


But I can guarantee that this gathering of vultures shall sharpen their talons and beaks fairly soon.

 

[CORIN THUNDERFIST II]

And, hopefully, end up with their wings well and truly clipped!

 

[SimonW]

And, hopefully, end up with their wings well and truly clipped!

We shall see...


(chapter 2, part 2)

Past the uncouth man was a flamboyantly dressed plump woman with heavily adorned application to her person that bordered upon making her look like a clown. But her homely appearance made her make up almost untraceable, the bizarre black adornments of clothing seemed to make her face a cloud of white aside from the rosy complexion underneath which beheld a touch of embarrassment. In her hands, she held a patented black and ugly-looking umbrella that acted as a sort of cane or walking stick when not used for conventional method. But aside from her appearance, the plump dumpling of the woman seemed to not sway her upturned nose to the young gentleman to the left of her.
Hubert Miles was no stranger to these “heirs”, as they called themselves. They were the dearly departed’s kin, her brother and sister by birth. But they were not on personal terms to Hubert Miles, unlike the gracious departed that was their sister. She was the only one that bothered to get to know the old man after the death of her father. The elder daughter, Delores, was plump in frame and short in stature even then. But she had no love to give, just contempt. As for the young man, Hubert only recalled seeing him once in his life and that was at the reading of the will of the deceased’s father. Hubert Miles did not like him particularly on that occasion and his thoughts on the young man had not changed in the slightest.

Hubert’s eyes swept past Delores to a meek looking man bent over in a mild manner. His furtive yet timid eyes were behind some horn-rimmed glasses as he held a black hat with a tacky tartan band within his white-fisted hands. He almost seemed smaller then Delores, if it were possible. The man was certainly not young looking but he probably looked older than he appeared. The man squirmed in his seat, as if uncomfortable as the lawyer’s shrewd eyes rested on him before Hubert turned his attention elsewhere along the table.
At the other end next to the mild man sat Derek and Chris, the dearly departed’s husband and son. Hubert Miles liked these two, more than he cared to admit in present company. He knew his dead friend, the dearly departed’s father, was proud of his choice of husband he had picked for his second daughter. It was not an arranged marriage, but it was close to being one. Gerald, his dead friend was called, was happy and blessed them both. It was only a shame that Gerald died before knowing his own grandson, but Hubert Miles had spent time with the boy in the boy’s youth and knew Chris was a grandson Gerald would have been proud of. Derek was a loving husband and earned his keep before his late wife had gained what her father bequeathed to her on his deathbed.
‘And not only that, he’s honest,’ thought Hubert Miles with pride. He almost wished he had a son like Derek, but that was not a thing to dwell on. Not now...
Wrenching his solemn eyes away from the only two people he respected in this room other than himself, Hubert Miles let no trace of pride be seen as he grew sour once more as his eyes beheld the next person sitting opposite Derek and Chris.

The flash of gaudy gold from the rings almost blinded the old lawyer’s eyes as the enigmatic person idly picked his teeth clean with a toothpick in his well pedicure and pampered tanned left hand. He wore no black, just his “formal suit” as he boasted, which was nothing more than a white ruffled shirt with a heavy red-lined collar, a gold chain swaying with a symbol best not seen nearby the child’s eyes. He at least wore an undershirt to spare the decency of showing off his tanned muscled body. His flannel white tailored pants and white shoes with shiny golden heels did not impress anyone, but his smirk of perfect white teeth and combed back with gel black hair made it obvious he was thinking this a farce.
Joey was the deceased’s half-sibling, and he seemed to enjoy spreading disruption in his wake. The only things this playboy wannabe loved was women, booze and most of all money. He was not well loved within the community and his spending abroad was infamous as he found the town bored him. But his motives for being here were clear, in his own words before he had sat down, “Let’s see if I get anything,” .


(to be continued...)

 

[SimonW]

(chapter 2, part 3)


The gathered party glanced expectantly back at the old man that seemed to gaze at each with scrutiny before coughing lightly and glancing back down at the white parchment within his hands.
“Now, to the matter of the last will and testament of Mrs. Derek Kettering, Bethany as her first name,” somberly read Hubert Miles without glancing back up.
He heard a half-strangled sob come from the direction of Delores but paid it no mind. She was an emotional soul and despite her faults, she remained a woman with a heavy heart, as well as other heavy burdens.
But, the sudden change in the atmosphere surrounding Hubert made him glance up suddenly. Derek and Chris seemed so small at the other end of the table. The other four loomed larger than life as if hanging on the old lawyer’s every word.
‘The vultures have shown themselves, circling their prey,’ thought Hubert Miles disdainfully but carried on his duty despite the sour thought still lingering within his mind.
“To my elder sister, Delores,” Hubert Miles continued but took note of the sudden stop of weeping the obese woman was doing when she heard her name and held a dry handkerchief clasped within her free hand.
“I leave you with the hopes you may one day be as happy as I am and grant you Father’s antique paintings that should have come to you,” recited Hubert Miles until he was suddenly halted by Delores having another outburst of crocodile tears.
“She always knew how much I loved those paintings,” sobbed out Delores meekly before dabbing away some make up from just below her eyelid with her handkerchief.
“Ahem...and to my brother, Martin, I have no idea what you want because we have not been in touch for so long. But, I can give you Father’s vintage cars. I faintly remember how you always enjoyed riding in them at a young age,” Hubert continued until finally the uncouth man known as Martin suddenly laughed dryly.
“My sister always got the wrong impressions. No doubt I shall find somebody to pawn them off to,” muttered Martin with indifference and a shrug of his shoulders.
Hubert Miles did not wish to respond to that so just went back to reading the will but noticed Derek glance at Martin with a sour look before he continued.
“As for my Uncle Cyrus, though not really an Uncle, we always called him that, you are like a member of the family to me. I am sure there are a few things you would like. I leave it to my husband to sort things out,” Hubert Miles said and automatically stopped, gazing at the pitiful man wringing his hat nervously.
“Gee....r-really? I..I dunno what to say about that. Shucks, geez, I never expected anything but I guess...a-a look never hurt, r-right?” asked timidly Uncle Cyrus as he glanced over at Derek as if seeking permission.
“Do not worry. We shall settle it later,” responded back Derek seriously to the nervous wreck of a man and nodded to Hubert Miles to continue.
“To my husband Derek I leave the estate my father gave me and all possessions therein,” Hubert Miles read on. “As to my only son, Chris, I leave....all my wealth and that of my father until he comes of age at eighteen. His legal guardian to all his assets shall be...” Hubert stopped abruptly for a few seconds. He almost could not believe it when he saw it there but his duty told him to press on. And yet...
“Come on, then! Out with it!” shrieked out Delores, her face now a deep red with her patience wearing thin. “Whom is the boy’s guardian??”
“Joey...” announced Hubert Miles, blurting out the word he wished had not been there.
“Well, looks like my dead sis ain’t so dumb after all,” Joey said amidst the shocked silence and with a condescending smirk plastered on his perfectly tanned face.


(to be continued...)

 

[SimonW]

(chapter 2, part 4)


I did not seem to understand fully what was being said. As soon as after Uncle Joey had said that my mum was not so dumb, total chaos seemed to spring from the rest of my relatives around the table.
Aunt Delores was shrieking at the old man whom was my mum’s lawyer. He seemed to take it in good stride though, just acting as if he didn’t hear her and was reading silently to himself my mother’s will.
Strangely, Uncle Martin did not seem as upset but his slight scowl upon his face told me he was also not happy.
My Great-Uncle Cyrus just seemed to shake his head sadly but his hands were white from twisting his hat out of shape.
I glanced over at my dad but his expression was set like stone, a grim frown upon his face as he clutched my hand with an almost vice-like grip. I did not like the way he looked just now. But as I surveyed the scene before me, the one look I hated the most was Uncle Joey’s.
Uncle Joey seemed indifferent slightly, merely continuing to grin and showing off his white teeth. I knew this was a bad idea, to read mum’s Will on the day of her funeral but it was Dad’s idea. He said something like “wanting to get it over with quickly”. I understood now what he meant. He wanted to get rid of my relatives as soon as possible. My Dad knew what he was marrying into, mum had told him frequently enough when she was alive. It was not until today I fully understood what she meant.
I gazed with loathing at my Uncle Joey’s wolfish grin. Why would my mum want him to be my guardian? I gazed back at my dad as the old lawyer shook his head and muttered to my still upset Aunt Delores that he could not do a thing, it was all “above board and correct”.
My dad’s face was still unmoved, but I could tell he was upset. His mouth twitched, just ever so slightly. It was a habit of his I became familiar with over the previous month since my mother died. Most days and nights as we silently eat our meals in our main dining room I would catch glimpses of his mouth twitching as it was now.
“Ya hear that, sweet sister? Just relax, get yourself a dog or somethin’. I can handle my nephew better, especially since he got dough,” remarked Uncle Joey suddenly that made me look at him again.
Uncle Joey still smiled but it was more relaxed and as he said the word “dough” he held up his right hand and rubbed his thumb against his fingers.
At this, Aunt Delores stopped her protesting and seemed to grow redder in the face as she directed her attention to Uncle Joey.
“You always were a bum, Joey,” she announced with vigor as she pointed the handle of her umbrella at Uncle Joey.
Uncle Joey seemed unperturbed, merely putting his right hand down upon the table and grinning inanely once more before replying.
“Yes, but unlike yourselves, a rich bum,” retorted Uncle Joey with mirth but I detected a hint of seriousness in his voice.
Aunt Delores just gawped at him, her anger and amazement at one so uncouth that I thought she was going to burst right in front of us. But she seemed to regain her composure slightly and then buffeted her brother Martin with the handle of her umbrella on his shoulder.
“Come, Martin,” ordered Aunt Delores, ignoring Uncle Martin as he clutched his shoulder. “We are leaving.”
I watched as Uncle Martin and Aunt Delores left together, Uncle Martin mumbling as to why Aunt Delores hit him but as Aunt Delores waddled out, we never heard the answer as she banged the door of the lawyer’s study shut behind her.


(to be continued...)

 

[SimonW]

chapter two, last part

Sorry it is short.

(chapter 2, last part...)

Not much happened after that. Aside the fact that Uncle Joey yawned and said something along the lines of us all being “sentimental saps” and would “collect” me later on. With another flash of his golden ornaments upon his fingers as he twiddled his fingers and a sly smirk before leaving, Uncle Joey left without another word.
Great-Uncle Cyrus was the next to leave, slinking off timidly. At least he nervously mumbled about how my mum would be missed to my dad before also exiting, still clutching his wrung out hat in his hands.


With the vultures soaring off after tearing the bones of the carcass clean, Hubert Miles glanced over the parchment that was the deceased’s will at Derek and Chris solemnly.
“Hubert, please continue,” urged Derek Kettering in a calm and even manner.
Nodding slowly, Hubert Miles continued to read out the remainder of the will. Usually he would protest, saying that the party in question was not present. But, as this was a favour to the son-in-law of his dearest friend, Hubert Miles decided to not raise the issue.
But, as Hubert Miles rambled on the small legacies left to several charities and near friends of the village his eyes were solely upon the boy known as Chris, the deceased’s son. The lad was strong, he could tell that. He had to be, with relatives like that. Hubert Miles observed the thin frame of the child, thinking that the boy was suffering more than he would let on. But this seemed natural, attributed to grief. Chris did not seem to glance away from the steely eyes of the old lawyer, matching the stare that seemed so full of pain and loss. Yes, that was it. The boy was weak, in a sense. His mind and body seemed in order but his spirit seemed fragmented. Hubert Miles let his eyes wander back to the will. Even though he knew that the tough part for himself was over, that boy’s was only just beginning.


End of chapter two.

(to be continued...)

 

[SimonW]

Chapter 3, Part 1

Chapter 3: ...The Greater To Be A Way


It was a silent drive in the limousine on the way home. Dad had barely glanced at me, let alone talk to me. We had left the lawyer’s office with another muttering of pity from my mum’s lawyer and my dad just seemed to sigh before we made our way downstairs to be solemnly greeted by the limo driver we had hired for the funeral. The limousine itself was ours, a gift from a distant relative in Italy whom could not come to my mum’s funeral.
I peered over at my dad beside me in the back seat of the limo. He did not seem to notice I had but perhaps he had because for the briefest of moments he sighed again before opening a decanter of champagne and filling up a small glass cup with the fizzy liquid.
I turned away, hearing the clink of the bottle as it was placed back into its refrigerated holder to keep it cool and the slow gulping noise as my dad drank the champagne from the glass. He was steadying his nerves, glad to have gotten it all over and done with. But I knew in my heart with fearful dread that this was only the calm before the storm.


‘All for one and none for me,’ thought David Cyrus with disdain as he was waiting within the Sitting Room of Kettering Manor.
He was sipping from a half-empty glass of bourbon whiskey, sloshing the half-melted ice cubes around in the glass in a gesture of boredom.
Derek Kettering sat within the lush sitting chair calmly whilst Uncle Cyrus nervously paced around the sitting room with his glass in hand.
“I just...just don’t under...understand it,” muttered David Cyrus to himself, his mutterings falling on the deaf ears of Derek Kettering.
Having no reply to this, David lifted his glass and took another sip of bourbon to better calm his nerves. But this proved to be in vain for the timidly inclined man standing by the unlit fireplace.
It was now late evening. The proceedings of the day were longer than Derek Kettering had figured. It was merely an hour ago when he and his son Chris had returned home from the lawyer’s office. He had told Chris to have supper in Chris’s bedroom. Chris had done as his father asked, probably grateful for the change since most nights they ate in silence at the long Dining Room table that was laid out for only two.
But Derek knew that even those days would soon pass, once Joey would come to “collect” his inheritance.
For now, Derek had to deal with Uncle Cyrus, the weedy little man in a tacky suit and rumpled hat. Derek knew Uncle Cyrus’s type well, he frequently saw them at the racetrack, clutching desperately to their “long-shot” tickets and most of them crying in the muck once it was over and ripping their useless tickets to shreds. A natural born, down on his luck loser. That fit Uncle Cyrus so well. It was just as well Derek’s wife was not alive today to see the wretched creature slightly hunched in a dejected manner before him.
‘A parasite, a living cockroach that craved the stench of humanity,’ thought Derek Kettering bitterly at the pathetic man before him. ‘Instead of doing something, he mopes around, mooching off of those better than himself.’
“S...so, not meaning to pry, but...when can I possibly...you know...get what was g....given to me?” asked the pitiful wretch, his nervous fingers rubbing round the outside of the glass in his left hand.
Derek did not respond straight away. He was in no hurry to give the man the satisfaction that he so desperately craved, a quick means of income. Derek Kettering knew he would need to answer though. But not in a direct manner, of course.
“What is it you would like?” asked Derek in an even but cautious tone, trying to sound polite.



(to be continued...)

 

[SimonW]

chapter 3, part 2

(Chapter 3, Part 2)


David Cyrus licked his lips anxiously before gulping down another mouthful of bourbon. His glass was now nearly empty, save for at least another swig amount of booze within and the half-melted ice cubes clinking together within the confined space of the glass.
David knew he was a timid man, not exactly past his prime in his mind. But his weak and mild demeanor made him cautious and unnerving to others. David Cyrus had been fortunate to become friends in his younger days to Gerald Kettering and had wormed his way into the household, being portrayed by no family ties as “Uncle Cyrus”. And to this advantage he behaved as appropriate befitting the “title” he donned to be on good terms with Gerald and his family. And for that reason, David Cyrus bided his time with a family that was not his. He was eager to get what he felt was due to him over the course of his “friendship” to the rich old geezer. He was disappointed nothing was left to him by Gerald, most likely because the old pompous fool saw through his charade. But, it was worth the wait. Bethany was quite unaware and a trusting lady, even as a child. She just knew him as a friend of the family and always called him “Uncle Cyrus”, which suited David fine.
And now, here he was, ready to collect his winnings. He adjusted his glasses slightly with his right hand before responding to Derek’s question.
“Oh, I don’t know. There are so many fabulous pieces. One has to be care...careful what one must choose. For sentimental r...reasons, obviously,” he replied in an almost flippant manner, his stuttering not as noticeable as before.
Derek Kettering did not change his manner. He just silently cursed the man mentally before lifting his hands palms upward from the arm rests of his chair in a gracious gesture.
“Take what you like. Aside from the paintings and the cars in the garage, be free to pick whatever strikes out at you,” Derek stated plainly, a slight hint of disdain in his voice that was obviously notable.
Uncle Cyrus merely nodded politely, his nervous facade back in full swing. Inside, David was still weary but he grinned none the less, finally able to taste victory for once in his wretched loser life. He took the last sip of his bourbon whisky from his glass in celebration. But little did Uncle Cyrus realize his celebration was to be an untimely and short one.


Chris felt miserable the next morning. He had cried himself to sleep last night again. For the briefest of moments before he was awakened by his curtains being drawn, Chris was content before recollecting everything. He did not hold back the tears that were welling up in his eyes as their Manservant called Thomes pulled back his master’s bed cover slightly and placed the breakfast tray in front of Chris with a weather-beaten yet professional face. Thomes embodied perfection and routine, always humble and never emotional, at least in front of Mister Kettering and Master Chris.
After snapping open the expensive white breakfast napkin with efficiency, Thomes gave a curt nod and left Master Chris’s bedroom to allow Master Chris to eat and cry in peace.
Chris did not feel like breakfast this morning. But none the less, he nibbled upon a piece of lightly buttered toast in between outbursts of sobs.


(to be continued...)