The Iron Queen: Six Feet Under

Section I: Just a normal week in the Kingsley-household

CONTENT WARNING: SWEARING, MODERATE VIOLENCE

Mercedes Kingsley

"We come to this world followed by screams. Coincidentally, we leave this world followed by screams. It does not matter if it is you, or if it is the people around you that scream. Nothing truly matters. Nothing is truly true. Nothing but death and chaos is truly here. Happiness is fleeting. Love ends. Pleasure dissipates. Hope drowns. Homes are burnt to the ground. Families are broken. Everything dies. Then we do it all again. We continue on an eternal wheel of euphoria and misery. Never knowing that all we do for joy, will be all for nothing. Why? Because the only certainty is doom. We all scream, whether it is because of agony or ecstasy. But then again, who cares? This doesn't matter. Nothing truly matters."

- My depressive little shit of a poet uncle

Not to make fun of his poetry or anything. Personally, I found poetry annoying. If whatever that quote was could be considered a poem I did not know; I always skipped my poetry classes. Too much gloom and love for my tastes. I had received far too many poems by my many suitors to be able to like the genre, no matter how hard I tried.

Anyways, back to the task at hand: Good old uncle number umpteenth. The little shit who couldn't wait till after new years to get himself killed. I let out an annoyed sigh as I flipped through even more pages of the book in my hands. This was my uncle's treasured diary, and I lit the fire in my room, ready to burn it for its scandalous nature.

His diary was filled with "deep" depressive quotes like this. It was also filled with a large number of other men's wives that he had slept with, and the names of the bastards they had managed to conceive.

How do I know this? You see, my uncle always kept his diary on his person at all times. He was quite the zounderkite. Not realising that having written proof that you slept with your friends' wives in your pocket at all times was a bad idea, especially when you love a drink as much as he does. Actually, "as he did" would be the correct term. Seeing he is currently lying in a casket with approximately 30 stab wounds spread across his body.

We had tried to keep the news of his demise secret since we couldn't be bothered to go into mourning when Christmas was so soon upon us, but apparently my uncle ran a magazine; a magazine in which he published his different writings, as well as the works of other people. So when the magazine did not get published, his "co-workers" became worried. Instead of doing the normal thing, contacting his family, they went to the papers. The media, of course, ended up digging up what had happened. Well, a version of it anyways. The version we paid the people in the bar to tell anyone who might question the episode. However, we did not anticipate that his magazine-friends would go look for him so soon; which brings us to where I am now – burning the pages of my uncle's diary, page by page.

Later today, we all have to go to town to pretend that we are buying mourning clothes; when we, in truth, just have a couple of chests filled with appropriate mourning-wear. We weren't superstitious idiots that believed that it was bad luck to keep these clothes in the house, nor could we be bothered to spend our money on new clothes every time someone died. After all, people in our family tend to die like flies; but most members of the family don't have the audacity to die before important events, unlike uncle number umpteenth.

As well as pretending to buy clothes, we had to put all rumours to rest. Instead of sounding like the cold and heartless people we were, who are angered every time something spoils our festive plans; we have to pretend that we did not say anything concerning my uncle's death to spare his family, especially his children from losing him during a time that should only be filled with joy; claiming that we would rather let the family be given condolences at a more appropriate time. The explanation would make sense to the masses, and our enemies would have to scratch their heads, wondering if we were truthful. This was all a necessary evil so we would seem innocent when my uncle's murderers started falling to grave injury or illness.