Requiem [COMPLETED]

Already with the Bullshit Tragedy. Seriously?

The map is the area in which the story is set. Wolverton is a (very) small town south of Fargo-Moorhead, set in the Red River Valley of the North. Aka not Texas-Arkansas.

            My brother and I saw her at the funeral; she didn't look like herself. The skin was wax-like, makeup on that she never wore. She looked exotic. It was the first moment of discord when I realized that death mask held something that my mother had hidden from me: there was more to people than what they would tell you. Here were secrets-- her death, the bitter frown lines-- that I might never understand.

Sven sat by me and refused to talk to anybody but me. I sat bewildered.

"Sven, is she really never coming back? I want her here."

"No, she's gone and we won't ever see her again. That's what death is; you go away and never come back."

"Why did she die?" Sven just pursed his lips.

Some ladies tried to talk to us during the church coffee afterwards, calling us "poor darlings," and saying things like "I'm so sorry your mommy's gone to Heaven. I know this must be very hard for you, but God wanted her with him."

Sven responded by cutting them off. "You don't know me. You're throwing a party with coffee and cake when she's dead. You're awful. Go to Hell."

I'd never heard Sven cuss before; only Grandpa, who appeared amused by Sven's sudden spurts anger and didn't even bother to clip him or tell him to shut up.

On the way home Grandpa even said "don't ever let anybody pity you. It takes something away from you and gives power to other people when they lord over you with how bad they feel for you, like they're goddamn mother Teresa."

"Who's mother Teresa?" I asked.

"A viperous woman, calls herself a nurse and a religious woman. All she does is watch other people dying every day and doesn't give them medical care, just prays over them, crouching over their souls like a fucking demon. Doesn't care about people, just souls. Lots of people think she's great, but it's all an act."

Sven and I sat quietly, digesting the idea of a woman all but sucking souls out of bodies because she thought sending people to Heaven was better than curing them.

"Grandpa, can someone take our soul?" I whispered.

"Only if you let them, if you're weak." He squinted into the distance where heat hazed up from the road, erasing it near the horizon, his big, burled fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Your great-grandma Severn taught me how to be strong, and I've tried to teach my children and their children. Either you're weak-willed or strong; I agree with the Bible mostly but I don't believe a word about the weak inheriting the Earth. That shit was snuck in their by some sniveling priest who gave up everything for the Church and wanted it to not have been the wrong thing to do. Probably realized he'd lost everything, including his power. God doesn't give power, he just has all the power. Strong wins, every time. You've got to be strong, or people will take everything away from you. I keep mine and I keep it fast."

No one spoke about my mother; it was understood that it was just not done. After she died-- how did she die?-- it was like she had never existed. Sven was two years older than me; he pulled back into himself and would talk about mom only if we were alone, outside of the farm. There was some invisible boundary, which once crossed, gave us freedom to do and say what we liked. We'd run out across the yard and through the windbreak, out through the alfalfa, and into a lonely copse of cottonwood that contained a fallen-in homestead.

About a month later grandpa went into town and was gone a long time. When he came home a red station wagon followed him up the drive. It was the beginning of another goodbye.

*****

I can't believe you're seriously writing like this. I'mma stop it right now. I apologize for my sister. She thinks if she's writing anything it needs to either be in third-person passive or "real, serious literature" as if she's writing the next Booker Prize winner. I prefer to keep it real, and if she wants to share any of my stuff, I ain't writing using only four-syllable words or longer. I don't do descriptive lyrical shit.

Sven what the hell.

Not now, I'm introducing myself.

You literally interrupted my first chapter—

But—

Reclaiming my time.

But Sig—

Reclaiming—

I'm the other author and half the time you're just writing about me anyway—

REclaiming my time! RECLAIMING MY TIME!...(breathes in) Now as I was saying: ......shit. SVEN!

If you forgot what you were thinking it clearly wasn't important.

You're not important.

Well that was uncalled for. Anyhow, we're sort of writing this together. Which is why the POV and style will be all over the board because we can't agree apparently. My sister is very intelligent; however we are both too stubborn to be in the same room much, let alone talk about the same project.

If I kill you before we're done it'll be your fault.

So it goes.

What is it with you and dystopian fiction?

Vonnegut isn't dystopian. It's just weird.

Like you.

Exactly. Maybe that's why I like it.

[eye rolls] Okay getting back on topic, we are writing this story...and Sven you are only allowed to edit your own bits. No commandeering my sections. And I'm writing the first twelve or so chapters ALONE so that this will actually be somewhat suspenseful.

By suspenseful she means NOT THE TRUTH because she's just not letting me explain what really happened until like halfway through the book.

We're not arguing about this again.

...but...we are...

I'm saying I don't want to, again. Just shut up.

What about grammar?

I said NO EDITING MY WRITING. You'll just start rewriting the whole thing, you can never help yourself. And anyhow  I don't like criticism from you. I don't take it well. You know this.

Well that's clear, but why? I'm never trying to be malicious, you know I just want to help!

Yes and you have no filter and say things in a way that makes me want to break things over your head. That is why.

I still don't understand.

That's besides the point.

But—

I said nO.

But—

No Sven. Just stop.

...

Don't.

Goddamnit Sigrid. <sighs and wanders off>

Anyway let's carry on with the story, shall we?