Entwined

Royal Flush

Silas*

She seems like a shadow of herself, drifting between memories and reality, denying the inevitable. I looked around at the crowd gathered around his grave. Their familiar crying and watery eyes made them all look like a mess. Ironically, the weather was great, as if the universe was happy to be rid of him. The elements didn't seem to mourn his departure. Soon, small creatures will feast on him, and he will become a random skeleton, in a random grave, in a random cemetery.

I spotted his friends, and damn, Laurent was hugging my Cindy. He wasn't a threat, but still. He can't just touch what isn't his. Do people have the liberty to touch a painting in a museum? Of course not! Well, it's the same for my Wolfie. She is off-limits, and people can't seem to grasp that, especially the males.

I rolled my eyes at the sight of these sensitive people crying around me. It was really starting to get on my nerves. I was eager for this shitty funeral to end. We didn't lose Hugo; we actually got rid of his existence. He was an inconvenience, a useless piece on a chessboard, a pawn that wanted more than his status. When high-ranked people feel threatened or merely bothered by such shallow low-ranked pieces, they sacrifice them. He was a sacrifice for the sake of my own happiness and, of course, Cindy's. Oh, and our future kids.

I struggled to suppress my laughter and smile. The last thing I wanted was to endure another round of police interrogations. His demise was as foolish as he was. Killed by a mere fish. Ha ha ha! And to think he adored grilled shark meat. I couldn't help but laugh heartily at the memory of his face, pleading for my assistance, begging for another chance at life. A life he undoubtedly imagined sharing with MY Wolfie, MY future wife, and the ONLY mother of MY children.

Hugo, how did you even visualize yourself in Cindy's future? What on earth made you think you would be a wonderful match for her, would satisfy her, would be able to provide for her, or would be enough for her? He was so sure of it all, convinced that he was the one. He called me delusional and cruel but didn't care to see himself in the mirror first. How cruel was he, when he knew she owned me whole but still betrayed my friendship and stepped on my heart?

I don't give second chances. I don't forgive. I simply don't have enough patience for that.

"Help me," he begged. Excuse you! Never! I had the joyful moment to see you bleed out, to witness the soul leave your mortal body, to see you trying to grab the last bit of life around you, to hope for a miracle, for MERCY. Sometimes, mortals take God's place and decide for you. I decided to kill you and watch with utter joy and satisfaction as you got the last glimpse of the world around you. When all Hugo felt was the coldness of his body, the warmth of his blood and tears, and the texture of the sand he was leaning on, I was joyous. I was euphoric. I felt that all the people finally found their place. I enjoyed the sight of death and the scenery of a witness-free beach. Surfing was indeed the brightest idea.

He dared to say that I hurt Cindy, omitting that hurt is temporary. Well, he learned it the hard way. His existence was temporary after all. These people crying over his grave will soon leave and go back to their lives. And my Wolfie will go back to my arms. I will hold her tight this time. Seems like my Wolfie has a tendency to make the wrong choices.

In life, someone always wins and achieves their ends. As simple as it sounds. The whole "believe in yourself" thing is the delusion people tend to cling to. There is always someone stronger than you, and you really shouldn't play with him. You will most certainly lose. Take poor Hugo, six feet under my feet, as an example.

Whatever. This lame atmosphere surrounding me is getting on my nerves. I will not stand hearing the stupid speeches or the stupid prayer.

I took a walk in the cemetery. It grew quieter as I walked away from the crowd. I turned left, looking at fancier graves. This part of the cemetery had older graves. I looked at one right next to me: "CHARLES BEARMAN III, 1995." He died twenty-five years ago. I walked even deeper into the cemetery until I got a glimpse of familiar curves.