THE ART OF BURNING

II: WHAT BALLS? THESE BALLS?

[ ━━ ❝ ✧˚⋆｡☾✩˚⋆｡࿐❞ ━━ ]
CAIN

            THERE WAS NO FUNERAL for the girl whose death saved the world.

            My sister that isn't dead? Yes, we mourned for her. We mourn for her. Her name's been immortalized on the monument built out of remembrance for the victims. But Thea? Thea was just a single spark illuminating a dust of smoke, and that's all we have left of her. Her smoke, our memory of her.

            My hand rests against the monument. Despite the warm spring day, it's cold to the touch. It's a head shorter than I am, a pyramid of white marble resting just at the edge of the woods where the rift formed and collapsed. One side displays the names of the victims in a hideous bold font that makes Comic Sans look reasonable. The other two sides are blank.

            Pasithea Mendoza. Avani Nagarkar. Rachel Terranova.

            My head swirls.

            "Cain," my dad rests his hand on my shoulder. "You don't need to see this."

            The monument—of course they wouldn't want me looking at it. We really should get going, anyways. The rift starts getting dangerous if you linger long enough. It's like Five Guys in that regard.

            "I'm sorry," I mumble, pulling my hand away and shaking myself off. "Let's go, then."

            "He means you don't need to see any of this. You can go wait in the car," Bianca corrects.

            See what? I wonder. The rift? It's nothing I haven't seen before. And even if the rift did open itself back up again like Bianca thinks, it's not like the woods are all that eager to tell us. Everything seems completely normal. Birds flit around in the sky up above, singing like the cheery motherfuckers they are. Bugs buzz in the breeze and sunlight drips into the leaves like honey, casting an eery golden-green aura into the air. It's a beautiful spring day peppered with the beautiful sounds of all the birds and the bees either fucking or murdering each other or both, if they're a little bit freaky like that.

            For some reason, a shock of anger shoots through me. It must be the ugly white marble. Or maybe the hideous font. "You aren't my mom. You can't tell me what to do."

            "Cain, I am your father," Dad insists, placing himself in a power stance. "And I say go wait in the car."

            "Fine." I sigh. Push my lips into a pout. Cross my arms over my chest. Kick a pebble on the ground so hard I knock myself over. "Whatever."

            My dad and Bianca share a worried look.

            (Well, it wasn't exactly a worried look, per ce. It was more of a here goes this bitch again kind of look.)