Lacking Fragments: A Novel (Completed)

The Contents of the Urn III

One little urn; about 15 centimeters tall and 10 centimeters wide. It was placed on top of the same table as the TV, along with the said picture frame beside it. "Is that him?" I asked, referred to the frame.

     "Who?" asked Margery.

     "The one I inquired of," I made her remember. Again, I had to make her remember. Margery had to recall our previous talk, or else we'd just swim around in circles. "What I talked about in our call. Him."

     By the time she had figured out what was I staring at ahead, she replied, "Ahh, yes, I almost forgot."

     "You know who I'm referring to," I guessed, "right, ma'am?"

     "Her brother, yes. I remember." Also, through my peripheral vision, I saw Margery closed her eyes as if they might take a minute or two to open back.

     Still.

     Her eyelids were plain still. Until I myself turned my head around to take a direct look at it— eyeless, I examined her face, and unwell, this time I found grief. Slough of despond; the type of sorrow one could see in films beyond belief. Sheer grief.

     I stood.

     I then walked towards the urn and the frame. I had walked toward the picture.

     When near, I saw the image of a little boy surrounded by a lot of toys, little stuff toys, and action figures. The boy was holding two of them—one in each hand—of which if I recall the correct franchises, belonged to Looney Toons and Marvel Universe. The boy was holding Marvin the Martian and Spider-Man.

     Next, I picked up the frame; I took a longer look of it. "It's her brother?" I asked, still staring at the said picture.

     "He is," said Margery. "Little sweet boy."

     "What happened to him?"

     Hush. I thought I'd receive an answer, but there just occurred silence between us. A hush. And I knew, just by the feels, that no matter how much longer of time I'd wait, Margery would still give me no answer. I knew she'd give me nothing.

     Because of this, from the picture I had shifted my attention to her; I saw her grey eyes finally opened this time. Somehow, the grief minutes earlier seemed to have faded. However, the deepness of her eyes had shown its truest color. At last.

     "Are you okay?" Even though in between, it was obvious she was stuck; trapped of being okay, of being not.

     "It's been years..." she declared. "I'm fine now, thank you," even though I half-doubted it.

     "Are you sure?" I asked, confirming. Her words were obvious being lies, and I was sure of it. She sounded as if a piano being off-key.

     "I'm alright," she insisted, "at least, I learned to be."

     "Where is he?"

     Another hush. Clearly, I referred to the boy in the picture, and yet Margery remained quiet to my inquiry. It seemed as if she wouldn't like to speak up; unwilling to say anything. 'Where is he?' I asked again, of which she replied nothing. This way I could grasp what she wanted to happen. In this, her presence acted like she desired me to find answers myself.

     Margery wanted me to self-investigate; not to inquire through words.

     As if to her it was obvious—the answer—the first time I saw the very first thing. The thing before the framed photo.

     The urn.

     So then, from her again, I had shifted to return my look at the urn. It was the second time around I took long look at it. By this I noticed the urn to be having the color of spring—a mixed of blue and green—and great antique of a design of one big tree. Altogether, with falling leaves at its most aesthetic beauty. As though the thing, the urn itself, belongs to the old age of Renaissance.

     "What happened?" I asked. Since I, in the end, couldn't let these questions remain trapped at the tip of my tongue, in the back of mind. "How?"

     "Murdered."

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