A rose to grind

-29-

"Repeat it," with a bated breath, I urged Castelli on, "Again. What were you saying?"

Bemused, Castelli bared his teeth at me, his smile handsome and especially looking for trouble. It was a kind of smile that was provoking, with the curvature of his lips tilted into a mocking smile. I felt my forced calmness crumbling at its seams by his cryptic grin.

"Does it ring a bell?" Castelli tilted his head, seemingly calm even if he were lying dormant on the floor like a cleopatra on the highest pyramid throne. Nevertheless, the fact never bothered him enough. Rather, he was more focused on our exchange that he had forgotten, or even ignored, his dire situation. He continued to jab mercilessly amidst my throbbing head, "Seanel Manguolio. This is the key, the main factor, of your lost memories. And also — do you want to hear another little secret?"

I staggered on my feet as if I were drunken. Luckily, I was brought into an embrace, specifically, Etienne's embrace. I glanced at him briefly, and during that time, Etienne questioned me, his eyes incandescent with sincerity, as if I were the only treasure in his eyes. The dichotomy between the two men, one behind me, and one in front of me motionless on the dirt ground, was almost comical. However, I was not in a mood to find anything humorous.

Etienne's grasp around me tightened with a tensed, short question, "Must you truly?"

Even when his whole body emitted heat, as though I were wearing a bulletproof vest, the hearth did not get through to me at all. The more I stared intently at Castelli's benevolent face, laugh lines appearing like he was a friendly neighborhood idol, the more I felt colder. Its as if my mind was trying to register something, but slippery like a soap, the weasel-like memories faintly flickered in and out, making it unable for me to grasp them, and thus sending me into a state of discomposure.

Sweat dotted my forehead, and drops of salty sweat rolled down my jaw, while some astray, dipped into the corner of my mouth. I tasted a medley of sour, salt, and sweet all lining up into one horrible, disgusting flavor.

I didn't answer Etienne, and stared head-on at Castelli. Two gazes — one enthralled, and one choler, clashed against each other, reminiscent of swords clattering into each other, sparks and fire, flint, and whatnot flew in one direction.

Castelli went as far to raise a provocative brow, seeming especially charming if one had ignore the filthy dirt in his background.

"The suspense is killing me," I emphasized, narrowing down my eyes at him, "You should stop teasing me, and tell me. If not, your story will just grow boring if you prolong it any longer."

"Ha...ha..!" Castelli bursted out into hysterics. The raucous guffaws rang intermittent in my ears. He rose swiftly to his feet in a fluid motion, as if he were never on the ground. He spat out blood onto the plants coincidentally nearby, seemingly uncaring of whether it'd affect the environment. The blood dripped from the leaves, and soaked hastily into the ground.

I inhaled a mouthful of air.

Castelli swept the meringued blood, intermingling with sweat, off his cheek, furthermore splaying the specks of ichor on his cheek, like red paint touching a pitifully blank canvas. It was also strangely combined without any sense of discordance. The smooth, unblemished skin was now tainted with claret.

Castelli edged nearer toward us. Subsequently, making Etienne pull me in closer into his chest, intent on shielding me from the ichorous human-monster. The fluid motions, lingering with fear, and spite, only drove Castelli zanier. His footsteps crushed the twigs, snapping them in half, as he stepped forth languidly. The other members attending the funeral snapped out of their grief, and now, stared at Castelli as if he grew two more heads, and a pair of scrawny wings, similar to the drawings of satanic creatures.