The Gray Case

nineteen

He is here. He looks relatively young, not too old as no grey hair or prominent wrinkles are tainted on his face, but he presents shy signs of dying youth and he lacks the freshness of the young-those traces are probably silently fading away; years run by quickly and Mark is the living proof.

The bodyguard's name has slipped out of Alexander's mind although he has been told it, by him precisely.

Reunited in the spacious living room, blinding white haze of light shines through the fair-colored curtains, Ryan's body collapsed on the couch next to his mother who is sitting right there. Joseph's figure is standing tall and mighty by the door. He stays still and observes, his eyes do the most, his hands-l covered by the refined white fabric of his gloves, do too.

At some point he flashes a quick smile to Alexander. The meaning of it could be everything or nothing at all.

Like anything in life, to be able to give is to be able to lose.

He finds in it the need of gifting reassurance and the strive to fight the fear of fear itself, so he accepts it, lips pursed, heart open; he smiles back.

Mark as always, is calm. He thanks Anthony for finding a bodyguard for him and sits down on his favorite armchair, continuing his conversation with the bodyguard.

The man has broad shoulders and little but sharp eyes. He does have the right physique for someone who is bound to protect someone else, he looks like a man that is able to conquer anything but every now and then, Alexander falls right back into reality. At the end of the day a man is just a man. Death is death and if he is meant to protect his father, who is going to protect him?

Margaret was iffy making his acquaintance. She shook his hand, right after shaking her head disapprovingly at Anthony who was introducing him to her.

She sits; the air in her lungs making itself polluted by her toxic doubts. She has her lower lip under the pressure of her teeth, her hands folded on her knees which are crossed on top of each other.

Ryan whispers something in her ear, his hands hesitantly reach to hers; they are now one.

"It's going to help, really. Don't worry," is what Ryan says, but has no audible answer from her.

Alicia is cooking something up, her hands occupied with vegetables, salt and peppers. She likes doing that, it helps her to be focused on something else other than thinking about all the household's problems.

While she does so, a far memory of her and Amelia, Alexander's mother, comes to her mind and fills it with the her known vanilla scent and her emerald green irises.

They used to cook together every now and then. They decided they were going to cook together that day her heart quit its beating. That day she crawled in bed, tired after helping Alicia to clean the house but she never made it to help her cook.

Skin gelid, dark hair sprawled on the hospital's pillow and her ever haunting prettiness were there but dead.

That's the last memory Alicia has of her. Amelia had had heart problems for a while up until she went into ventricular fibrillation and her heart failed. She died even before she could arrive at the hospital, Alexander and Mark holding onto her hand.

A tear escapes Alicia's eye, it streams down her face and reaches her lips, the saltiness of it tingles her tongue but she doesn't cry, she can't do that and she won't.

The doorbell rings in a sudden and fugacious moment, making everyone raise their heads. Margaret furrows her brow and stands up to open the door.

As she opens the door her expression varies and abruptly changes when her stare is met with a man wearing a black dress shirt, same colored pants and a beige long coat.