Death Follows

01

dedicated to my love, CailinBianca
much love for pursuing yet another writing journey with me and for helping create our concept.

They lay her to rest. We watched; we couldn't do anything but watch. Our eyes stapled to the coffin as they lowered her seamlessly into her spot, perfectly dug.
The skies were grey and they weeped softly, using the earth beneath our feet as a tissue for their tears. Nature wailed in despair at Dahlia's passing, but we didn't. We were too numb to feel, too numb to express. I even had an ounce of hope that my twin sister would open her eyes and clamber her way out of the mahogany coffin they had caged her into. But she didn't.

I wished I could've seen her face for the last time, but I decided against it. I didn't want to remember the horror her body was left in after her death. All I wanted to picture in my slumber was her full of life, youth, and innocence. I wanted to see Dahlia, not Dahlia's fate. My sister deserved to be a pleasant surprise whenever I closed my eyes for the night, rather than a heart-clenching, breath-taking, soul-scarring image of my darkest dreams. She deserved to be a blissful image of ecstasy, not the portrayal of a drug trip.

The last time I saw my sister, she wore a smile so radiant and genial that it was impossible to detect the pain that was buried deep within. Dahlia had perfected her mask over the years, for even the twinkle in her eye glimmered whenever she spoke, laughed, or grinned. She always assured she kept herself clean, from her loose, black curls, to her skin, to the clothes she wore, to her pearly whites. Though my sister was so sweet and timid in nature, she was often penalised for her gothic and vintage attire. But Dahlia was a free-spirit. She didn't take a moment to let any objections sink in, simply because she was proud to be who she was. Life was her oyster, yet it had barely begun. She had taken the endless opportunities awaiting her away.

She was perfect - or at least to me. Our parents had always made it clear that Dahlia was nothing of the sort. They labelled her a rebel, they cursed that she was unworthy, they insisted she was no work of art, but grime on our family name. Their tongues would knot whenever her name was brought up around any other soul; they were ashamed to have a daughter like her. It's not that my sister was any trouble - not at all. She simply didn't live up to outdated expectations. She played part in no wrongdoing, yet she was seen to be commingling with the Devil.

Dahlia had a deep-rooted admiration for astrology, history, gothic books, tarot cards, and crystals. These interests would make her the family outcast. Such hobbies and interests frightened our parents and they declared that Dahlia was not to gain any inheritance after they took their last breaths. Whilst this is despicable enough, our parents are quite literally multibillionaires. Leaving their own daughter with no assured stability is incredibly heartless, but they didn't seem to care. Nor do I believe they regret their decision now that she is dead. My father's company has always been inked to be mine the day his heart fails and Dahlia never stood a chance. My sister always had the short end of the stick in life, which is what makes her angelic smile all the more memorable and admirable.

That smile. That photograph - withered and aged to perfection. Beautifully grainy, desaturated and discoloured. It was on the verge of being monochromatic, yet not exactly; undertones of pink and purple shone through, especially on her skin, giving her a radiant glow. The frame was golden and engraved with tapestry, giving the photograph an even more vintage appearance. It was taken at a medium shot, exposing her free and comfortable attire from the waist-up. Exposing her free spirit. With that smile. In that photograph.

I had to divert my eyes to the ground. I needed to shake myself back to reality, to force myself back into the present; she was dead, it was certain. Unable to be reversed. Yet I found myself hung up on her memory, as though she were still breathing with a meadow of healthy lungs, before the very thing keeping her flowers standing proudly killed them. Excessive water. A flood. Carnage.

She drowned.

The gossip was true; she had offered her soul to the deep depths of our local canal. She had prayed to find peace within the numbingly frigid waters, and so she stepped off the safety of the edge. She fell and I don't presume she panicked, nor struggled. She accepted the path she had chosen and she allowed her lungs to overflow. Depression had beaten her yet again and she assured it was the final defeat.

A cold hand lay gently on my shoulder, "Are you alright, Corvus?", my father spoke - to which I replied by nodding my head.

Was I alright? I had to be, but I wasn't. There is no pain worse than losing a sibling; I can promise you that. My heart has anchored, fell to the bottom of my chest, heavy and indescribably sore. A piece of myself seems to have rotted without her presence. A piece of myself has died in her absence, and I know there's no getting it back. I must live half-alive. I must adjust to this feeling.

"I presume this will be heavy on your heart, but you will get by." my father assured me, welcoming a crooked smile to his face. And a crooked man he was. Ugly. With a mind so deeply corrupted and blackened. A man too unlikable to have real friends or supporters.
"Heavy is quite an understatement, father. But I suppose we have no choice but to move on." I replied, taking a deep breath, withholding my anger.

Even at her funeral, my father seemed to show no remorse or upset for Dahlia's ending. He didn't seem to care that she was dead, acting unaffected, as if the whole occasion was a waste of his time, suggesting it was only I that seemed to be hurt. Any other parent would be crushed by their own child's death, but apparently not mine. The worst part is, I wasn't surprised.

Whilst my mother had perfectly folded handkerchiefs tucked tightly in her blazer pocket, often taking one out to catch a tear or two, she wasn't upset. Whilst my father stood with his head hung low, with no expression, he wasn't upset. They simply had to fit in. Play the part whilst the cameras were rolling. Be the perfect thespians. It disgusted me. How easily they could camouflage into their surroundings and the nerve they had to pretend like they were the perfect parents. Dahlia's worst critic, besides herself, was her own mother and father. The most likely culprits for driving her over that edge was her own mother and father. Yet, they acted innocent and heartbroken. I knew that, in reality, they were blaming Dahlia for ending her life. They felt it was none of their business or their wrongdoing. Not their own fault, but hers. My parents are narcissists, and so it's no surprise.

It was a dark day, and indeed it lays a dark memory in my mind now. Solid concrete, latched tightly like a leech. Blood sucking. Head infested, tangled, rapt.