metamorphosis

I1976

Father was an enigmatic con-man, avid for the most trivial trafficking associations. Back in the day, economic transactions failed to prevail, many suffered as they were unable to eke out a living. During this period of recession, Father managed to engage a large number of syndicates, taking them under his wing and holding numerous lectures. Headlines flashed, "the old-timer was of utmost significance to the business industry."

'Word on the street that Marcus Thompson could turn anything into financial gain, presumably God's gift of the Midas Touch they said,' a merchant whispers. Such gossip is able to elicit public interest, a harbinger of a crowd. Many who chose to pass by exchange flippant remarks with one another, others scoff and walk away.

A paperboy makes a sharp turn when he reaches Plaza Square, ready to distribute the daily scoop of scandals. He cycles by a huddled group of men. 'Hey, did you guys hear? Marcus Thompson passed earlier today. What a shame, they said it was a cardiac issue,' one of them announces. A deafening screech follows shortly after the appalling piece of news, the group of men turn their hunched backs towards its source.

'Boy! Are you alright?' the men hasten to help an unconscious paperboy up. Mounts of tabloids spill across the pavement, attracting the attention of commoners who turned away just as fast as they turned to look. A different man picks up a fallen paper and announces, 'Big businessman Marcus Thompson says his final goodbyes, many left to question his children's next moves.' 'So young! If only he lived longer,' the man shakes his head just as the boy begins to regain consciousness.

Complimenting pale skin, midnight-black waves coil around a fair maiden's evening gown. She watches a single ray of sunlight cut across the confined room. 'It's suffocating,' she thought. 'First mother, now father.' The maiden does not require whatever bequeathed, not from an absconded con-artist. She sighs, in this city full of aristocrats, three out of five would have been Father's acquaintance Mother was one too, a fishwife, one with great poise. She believed strongly in an archaic deity. Till the religion faded, and along with it she went. Soon after the news spread, Mother was diagnosed with an ailment panacea could not treat. Her child knew of it as depression built on the basis of an esoteric religion that failed to thrive.

'What a poor child, her family is basically broken,' a woman remarks. 'Elijah, won't you be a sweetheart and pass me the paper?' she waves her hands towards the paperboy. He gives a subtle nod to avoid further damage of his skull, still throbbing from the fall. Elijah could not comprehend the weight of this news, his sister, Valentina has worked with Mr Thompson for as long as they knew him. Though Marcus' visage scared him a little, Elijah had great admiration for him, for the stoic and sagacious businessman had treated him well.

'You know boy, I knew Marcus, I knew him personally, he was not a great man, but he had the spirit, the perseverance I had never seen in anyone,' her hushed words linger in the air. It remained quiet, Elijah had chosen not to answer, yet he did not know the exact reason why. He parted his lips, tried to make a sentence escape, and closed it subsequently. For a moment they sat there, each unable to tell what the other is thinking, both waiting for the latter to speak up. 'Why?' Elijah whispers. 'Why wasn't Marcus a great man?' he finally questions. The woman smirks and tilts her head towards him, 'Why, you ask?' she lets out a low hum. The walls around them start rumbling. His eyes dart around in all directions. 'What is- what is going on? Tell me what is going on!' Elijah repeatedly queries. The walls that suddenly came alive abruptly stopped in movement, as if there was an existing hindrance Elijah could not regard. The woman's smile fades away gradually, 'Elijah, why? Elijah, why?' she monotonously chants. 'WHY?' she yells. 'Figure it out yourself,' a meaningless chain of words flow out as she regains her composure. An opened envelope slips out of the astounded paper boy's hands, confused as he is, he does not bother to pick it up, instead, his full concentration is directed to whatever was in front of him, the heap of flesh in front of him, the thing that was in front of him.