Belladonna

Chapter 2

When you think of funerals, you think of rain. Surprising, since the old propaganda has been 'destroyed', and any mention of them is taboo. Somehow, the cliché survived.

That's why the sun streaming through the trees makes something seem fundamentally wrong as I am standing next to my father's grave, solemn-faced neighbors around me.

Yes, it's definitely strange. The echo of a buried culture forgotten out of necessity, surfacing once again in the face of death.

I guess humans are loathe to change, even when it comes to love.

Hence, the reason I am here.

The arrow of Eros. Once, centuries ago, impatiently awaited by rosy-cheeked romantics, a happy sign of things to come. Now, it's more likened to the sickle of Death, the very thought of it spurned by the feverish minds of the paranoid.

Most jump out of the way when they hear the musical twang of Cupid's bow. My father welcomed the arrow with arms wide open.

And the arrow shredded his heart.

People warned him, saw the danger in his moony daydreams of true love. He disregarded them. Until he was assigned to my mother.

Usually the government oversees courtship, in order to make sure no match was too perfect, monitoring in case any untoward emotion surfaced. But sometimes you just can't tell.

Once dad married my mom, he kept getting sicker and sicker. My mom did not. Later, people would murmur that it was not the poison that killed him, but the apathy of his perceived love.

I watch as someone rearranges my father's position in his casket. Is strange, seeing a human touch another human, even a dead one. In this world, a touch can slay.

I wonder how someone from the distant past would view us. Perhaps from the outside, we would the same to them, a family in mourning. Then they would look closer, pacing among us. They would notice the irregularities.

An uncomfortable shifting of the feet. A glancing of the watch one-too-many times. A barely apologetic smile as someone dashes of to answer a phone call with relief.

They would look at the family of the deceased, who at first glance seem to be making a brave face, staying strong.

Closer.

Closer.

There is no emotion in the face of the wife. She stares blankly at the grave. A small frown tugs the corners of her mouth, but not out of any sadness for the her husband. No, it's the petty annoyance of having to waste her time on an, essentially, useless tradition. This is just a requirement she is here to fulfill. As are all the neighbors.

What of the daughter? Is she as indifferent as the rest?

Its seems so, but...

Closer.

Closer.

Closer!

In her eyes, there. A sheen of tears. The frown she's trying to hide is one of genuine pain. Her brow is furrowed. She looks up at the sky several times, blinking away emotion.

And yes. There is fear there, too.

More then fear. Terror.

Maybe even poison.