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TO VIEW DEATH is to view your own destruction.
A monster lies in every man. A selfish, conniving being that understands, if it isn't you, then it's me. To view death is to acknowledge the rot that lives in your own soul. Selflessness is meant for fairy tales and tear-filled promises. Even heroes have something to gain from their sacrifice. In reality, no matter how much you love someone, you love yourself more. The famine spreads, and as you realize that you are truly alone, your love runs dry.
To view death is to become a murderer in your own right.
- - -
The peacefulness of the day laughed at the Kanes; liquid gold fell from the sky, drenching the burial ground below it in dry heat. Juniper bushes pushed through rusted gates, flourishing under the shade of tall mahogany trees, while dandelion fuzz and ladybugs landed on Ilia's freshly laid grave, situated next to his sisters.
Io has always liked to think that Earth shares in her sadness. That She shudders every time a new sibling is added deep beneath Her flesh. That the tears that fall from Her sky are pain and the flowers are love and the bird songs are remembrance. Her elegy, wind whistling through branches and water gushing through streams.
Misha squeezed himself around her, and Io felt the urge to throw up. Salt flooding her nose, metal her mouth. Pressure formed right below her throat as it constricted, stopping her breathing. Her fingers itching to let go, to jump the fence and run home. To curl up in bed and-
Her thoughts were interrupted by her father's arms wrapped around her shoulders. David pulled his children closer, resting his head atop hers. They stood like that for a while, as a family. And while Io relishes in the comfort of her father ( a solace seldomly provided ) she knows it was extended for Mikhail. Sheltered by their father's arms, his young mind is yet to be corrupted, but Io knows the truth.
At once, it all comes rushing back.
Watching someone's demise is excruciating, especially when you know you are the cause. Ilia's life was obsessive, up until the very end. Only, before, no one cared that he would spend hours running across the district to find the perfect flower for Ania's school project. No one cared that he would vanish for days, locked in his room, writing his feelings away. No one cared that he rarely ate, or that his eyes always bore deep, purple bags, or that his finger beds were crusted with blood. No one cared because he was a good brother. He was kind and he was loving. And then he wasn't. It is hard for Io to think about how her brother looked before his fall. All she sees are his bloodshot eyes and shaky hands; his hallowed skull and pasty white corpse.
