These Paper Pages

YELLOW

Arlo is fifteen when he succeeds his father.

His father is not a good man, and in the end, Arlo supposes as he stands in front of his casket, he wasn't a good father either. He places the white rose on his father's chest, his fingers lingering a moment longer as if contemplating to touch his father's pale face. It's unnecessary—his father, dressed in white with his eyes closed and cheeks lacking any colour, is dead. But the urge to touch him pervades as if it will change an irrefutable truth whose evidence lies before him.

Beneath the cathedral, bathed by the glow of the autumn sun and touched by its faint tendrils of warmth, Arlo refuses to admit that there is an ache ebbing away at his chest and unshed tears in his eyes. He refuses to admit that behind the walls of his apathy and indifference is a child mourning the loss of a father who he once looked up to because he was the sky and Arlo is the tree rooted to the ground, longing to touch the vast blue stretching out above him.

Arlo tucks away any dredge of grief in him, his father's words ringing inside his mind as he turns away and faces the crowd seated at the pews, a flock of hungry vultures waiting to sink their claws in him.

"This is the first and last death you will grieve." He says as he crouches in front of his small, crumpled form, a hand warm and callused (deliriously he thinks it's the first time his father has ever touched him ) resting on his shoulder. "You can mourn for him for as long as you want, but remember that once you're finished, you will never have the time to mourn for anyone else again."

There's so much blood. The sense of utter wrongness and disgust curls itself around his stomach and wounds itself tight that it leaves Arlo a little breathless as he remains on his hands and knees, bile and water mingling in the back of his tongue as his eyes fixates on the red staining the marble.

Arlo takes those words to heart, engraves it into his mind, and weaves it into his soul. He looks at his father through eyes hazy with tears and nods, " I understand."

Arlo wonders if he truly understood the weight of his father's words then. He was barely seven years old at that time, a child who would have said anything to please him.

He breathes out. He watches, for a passing second, the fleeting, misty breath of warm air leaving his lips; it reminds him of his father, a man made out of smoke passing through the spaces of his fingertips and disappearing to a place he can no longer follow. The thought itself surprises him, but he silently chalks it up to him processing the loss of a presence he once saw of nigh untouchable. Arlo addresses the crowd and speaks of his father’s achievements, recollect lukewarm ( nearly cold ) memories of barely there fondness for the man. He holds some semblance of affection for his father, sure, but affection has never been the driving force of their dynamic. It was always about control and power, a defined line between leader and subordinate, between king and pawn, respect and fear.

When the funeral ends, an exchange of formalities begins. People flock to him like sheeps to their shepherd, condolences on their tongue and winding words of how their hearts go with his in mourning—but Arlo knows that these are merely empty words slipping from the mouths of serpents lying low on the ground, awaiting the perfect time to strike. By the time the crowd thins and only he is left standing by his father's gravestone, the weight of exhaustion settles heavy on his shoulders.

"Arlo." Darren's sharp voice cuts through the silence.

"Darren." He acknowledges him with a nod of his head, blond hair sweeping over his eyes, concealing the light imprint of rings beneath his eyes.

"Let's go." Darren cocks his head to the side as he turns, cigarette smoke trailing behind him as he marches forward. Quietly, Arlo follows behind him, hands stuffed into the pocket of his pants. He’s vaguely aware of how cold they are as they press against the thin layer of his pocket’s fabric. Darren leads him to his car, a matte black Mercedes coupe that has Arlo raising his eyebrows. It’s one of the man’s prized possessions.