They say the smallest coffins are the heaviest, but the burdens of the past are astonishing.
Funerals are supposed to be events when the past is buried, but for Brendon Urie it happened to be a profitabile moment to dig up the truth about his lover...
The most dangerous monsters are those that weren't born that way - they were good and carring till the day someone proved them they were wrong all the way. There is beauty in the change of one's soul.
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The screaming stopped.
It didn't came as a blast as he was expecting, but a tingly sensation that could've curl his spine till it'd have it broken. The fact that the curiosity killed the cat wasn't that helpful, and not being a fan of any kind of so-called cliché pieces of literature aimed him with the urge of getting the work done. The ticking sound of the cuckoo clock repeated its sound in frustration, reminding him that he was suposed to leave soon, but the sweet scent of revenge revealed that so long hidden thunder and storm raging inside.
The silence was deafening, as drops of that godly poison fed his vanity, easily, like the perfume of some random girl he'd forgot bare skinned in the room an eternity ago, erased soon from his filled with pride memory. The metalic taste is what he'd paid for so long, numb legs dragging him close enough to catch a glimpse of that corpse.
The winning of the crown could've put so easily that requiem on repeat, everything fading slowly like a valse around him, and little did he knew Dante himself would've been proud.
"Lose all hope ye who enter here, ay?" He wouldn't even stutter at that thought of getting out, not so much alive though.
What made the protagonist be like that was the question that popped in his head like a spreading disease, a story filled with a descend into madness being not enough to explain the truth behind his deepest desire. But how could he be the hero of this story as sin is a disease every villain and saint experienced?
It was all a connection of the past he'd have thought, somewhere in a sugary autumn of a funeral, where he found the soul-ripping truth that the small coffins are, indeed, the heaviest.
That smudged eyeliner of grief on the face of an woman could've put the frown on the face of Mona Lisa, with that ridiculous smile that would make any sinner or saint inside rumble. The mother of the victim kneeled on the cotton staining dirt, so many tears that could've got out from the core of the fresh soil that petrichor¹ that would have lifted into the air like a ghostly figure. The cross, such a poor indescriptible object for the salvation of the child's soul was shadowing the grave in which Lisa Jackson was going to be let down, one last time.
'Kids, with their play and fun. Now you have them, tomorrow they are gone', came into Brendon's mind, such filled with sobre respect, only shown on his serious face as he was looking at the suffering mother.
It was too cold outside, that kind that make the palest face shine with that glow that rise on the cheeks as the person seems to had ran into their crush, the one that raise the childish appetite for cinnamon and pumpkin spice diabetes triggering, risky drinks, and not suitable for that kind of sorrow that seem so close of depicting a murderous scene from some Edgar Allan Poe's poem.
