|5×𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑬𝑫|
"C'est la vie" (French) - "That's life" or "Such is life." It's often used to express resignation or acceptance in the face of life's ups and downs, similar to sayings like "That's how the cookie crumbles" in English.
previously...
I've made quite a few exceptional friends in my life, but none has been as positively peculiar as Kro.
We met one warm afternoon as I strolled down St. Steve's on my way to church with young Harper. The first time I saw her, she was happily hopping down the street, humming a fine tune. She was a pure delight amidst the hunched, grumpy people milling about their business, mumbling to themselves about their miserable lives. Kro, by contrast, seemed inexplicably happy, and her sense of fashion caught my eye.
Her style, I assume, was what this modern generation refers to as goth. According to my grandnephew, she was 'quite emo' with her sheen black outfit, bold smudges of charcoal around her eyes, and piercing stares. Harper was the first to befriend her. The little fella offered her a piece of his chocolate doughnut, which she happily devoured with the loudest thank you. Since then, we have been calling her Kro.
Even after Harper returned to his mum after the summer break, I would visit Kro whenever I had time. I'd always bring something to share with her just to see her jumping around in pure bliss as she ate whatever I brought. She was the epitome of the joy of life. We'd sit on a bench on the bridge and watch the sunset together.
Though Kro was the only friend I had around Crodshier, she had quite the clique. She'd be the loudest and the jolliest when she was with her friends. She even introduced me to some of her closest friends, Jeremy and Jules, who sometimes joined us to watch the sunset.
They all had that emo-slash-goth vibe going on with their looks. Their meet-ups used to attract side-eyes, murmurs, and even glares. Some people even went as far as to shoo them away when they flocked around their grilled meat stands or restaurant entrances. Those bitter people. Tsk. They think everyone is as unlucky and joyless as they are.
Things were all going fine for both me and Kro until one day she decided to piss off the butcher really badly. Grog with thick, meaty arms was famous for his swollen belly and the beard that had never gotten a proper trim. That man reeked of blood and he cursed back for greetings.
Like Metha's pup Bobby from the sewing studio down the street or Peter the barber's cat, Owl, Kro and her bunch were fascinated by the butcher and his shop. But it wasn't until she had stolen and accidentally swallowed the madman's gold ring that I discovered Kro had a thing for small, shiny objects. Well, to be completely honest, I didn't even know the butcher wore a ring in the first place.
"Grans John," Harper's voice snaps me out of my trans. He rinses out another bowl and places it on the counter next to all the pots and pans.
"Hm?"
"Do you still go to Hollow Bridge to watch the sunset?"
He leans over the counter, folding his hands over his buffed chest. My worn-out checkered apron doesn't match very well with his crisp white dress shirt or pressed black pants.
"Mhm... sometimes," I answer, not bothering to take my eyes off the TV.
It's been a while since I've seen a good thriller with clues scattered around like bloodied confetti and in my trans I probably have missed a few good ones. The camera pans out to a view of the evening city and my eyes settled on a skyscraper on the horizon. The dying sun glared above the lavish architecture like a ripe cherry on a weirdly thick toothpick. Sunsets were indeed different in those bustling cities compared to this mold-smelling Crodshier.
"Did you get to meet Kro again?" Harper asks, his tone curious.
"Mhm... A few times."
"It would be stupid to ask if she's still alive," He chuckles to himself. "She's a crow, after all, and it has been, what, a decade or was it a decade and a half since I was last in Crodshier?"
What should I say? Yes, it has been quite a long time. The last time he visited me, he was a wee baby, wowing at everything he saw in such a sing-song voice. Back then, I wasn't stuck in a wheelchair, forced to drink porridge.
But Kro was his childhood best friend, and the news I bore would hurt the kid's heart more than it hurt me to break my leg fighting a man in the name of a crow. I took a deep breath, contemplating my next words.
"Kro is dead. The butcher poisoned her whole flock the winter you went back to your mum's."
word count: 789
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