TURF

Friend

"Hey." Matthew said softly as he was closing the door behind him.

"Give me the key!" Dianne spat as she held her hand out.

Matthew obliged and placed the keys in the furious woman's hand - accessories and all. "I took them from the case the first time I was here." Dianne clenched her fist with the keys in it. "This is the only time I've used them, I swear. In fact, I came to give them back."

Dianne didn't respond to him. She, instead, looked away. She no longer had the strength to put up with the so-called 'Monrowe'.

"This is for you." he said as he presented the basket.

"I don't want it. Go away." A tear droplet or two escaped from her eyes just as she uttered those words.

Because Matthew was notorious for not cooperating, he instead placed the basket on her living room table and took off his grey jacket. "You can't be alone right now." He walked back to her. "I know how you feel."

"You don't know shit!" She whimpered. "Do you know what it's like to have your son killed by a bomb? Killed by you?!"

"I know what it's like to have my mother killed - blown the fuck up, by the same man who killed your son." Matthew spoke those harsh words with a lack of tone in his voice. He had already been numbed to the pain.

Dianne looked up at him with teary eyes and curiosity with a touch of fear, instead of resentment for once. Matthew knew where this was going, but he wasn't quite prepared for it - to reopen the wounds.

He took to the basket yet again and impatiently opened a miniaturized bottle of pink rose-infused vodka. He had gulped down half of the bottle at the first go.

The bitterness and burning sensations were unpleasant to say the least, but it granted him the courage that he needed to put out Dianne's flickering curiosity.

"You know who did it?" She asked while steadily approaching him as if he were a wild animal. "So it wasn't you?"

He took another shot of the drink straight from the bottle and let it dissolve his throat. "I didn't even know about it until it was too late." He replied.

"Who did it?"

His loyalty to the family business led him to hesitate, but he knew that Dianne at least deserved the closure. "My father... Assisted by my brothers."

"Why?"

Matthew's eyes apologetically looked at her, pleading not to have to answer that question.

"Because you want the house?" She shoved him.

"They want the house!" He defended himself.

"You're one of them, aren't you?! You're 1 of 8?!" She shoved again. "Wait, they killed your mother too?"

Matthew drank the rest of the liquor like it were iced lemonade at a neighborhood picnic - of which he almost choked on. He took the white envelope from the center of the basket and handed it her.

Dianne didn't know what to expect from the contents of the envelope. When she pulled out the letter that was neatly folded inside, she was relieved to be met with the sight of an astounding display of calligraphy instead of another death certificate or anything as permanent.

She worriedly looked at him, all tensed up and hesitant to read the first paragraph, alone. Alas she put on a brave front. Dianne was hoping to find answers in the letter. Answers that would at least explain why she hadn't found peace since she had settled in her suburban home...

'An apology will never be enough,

I only hope it's enough to know that I'm familiar with your pain.'

Dianne paused to look at Matthew who was leaning with his entire body weight against a load bearing pillar. "What is this?" She asked with her hands shaking under the influence of adrenaline.

"Just read, dammit." He replied faintly.

'This is the first time I've shared my story, and probably the only time I'll ever do so. This is the first time I've revisited this experience in years, but I believe that you at least deserve to know that you are not his only victim.

When I was younger, maybe eight, my mother went to church and never came back. It was one of those evening services for Easter. I had a fever that night so she told me to stay home and 'rest up' so that I could participate in the Easter egg hunt the following morning.

My father's property business was growing exponentially. And he just needed to buy one more building in the south of Hatfield to complete his South Collection. The owner, who was also head pastor at my mother's church, refused to sell. So my father placed a bomb in the church himself. He killed 288 people that day, and injured 17 badly.

It was labeled as a terrorist attack by the Islamic community.

He got away with it.

He got the building.

My eldest brother, Vincent, and his wife became my legal guardians thereafter... Our father wasn't really present in any of our lives, to be honest, he couldn't exactly be trusted with me.

I keep thinking about how he knew that my mother was going to be at the church, but didn't say anything. He didn't stop her, he didn't warn her, he just let her go knowing well that she wouldn't make it out.

I understand if you don't want company at this time - I didn't, I still don't. I refused help. I suffered alone, in isolation. In all honesty... I regret that. My loneliness only made the pain worse. I can't tell you what to do, but I want better for you.

I can be here for you. Tell me what to do.'

The letter only managed to spike her paranoia even more. "I know this isn't real."

Before Matthew allowed the offensive jab to anger him, he asked "How do you know?"

"It can't be real." She looked again at the letter, "You expect me to believe that your brothers are okay with the fact that he killed their mother like that? Do they know?" Dianne pressed.

"They know." He shrugged. "But, we don't all share a mother. The man couldn't keep it in his pants. He probably has other kids that we don't know about, especially daughters. Gordon Monrowe would be dammed if he openly admits that he's capable of producing girl children..." Matthew clicked his tongue.

Dianne wasn't blind to the frustration plastered on Matthew's face and his tense body language. What if this were true? "I'm sorry." Dianne murmured.

A weight was lifted off of his shoulders. Yet he was still puzzled by her words. "You're apologizing to me?" He asked.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend." She stepped into her kitchen and pulled out some whiskey and two glasses from her secret stash.

"I'm not your friend, and I don't think I want to be your friend. I can be a lot of things, but not a friend." Matthew joined her at the island table as she added ice.

"Then why are you here?" She poured the mahogany drink on ice into both glasses. "Don't you want revenge?"

"It's been over a decade. I barely remember what my mother looked like." He took one of the glasses and held it just in front of his plump lips. "I remember nothing from my last moments with her. Maybe just a glimpse of her smile and her hair. She had blonde hair." He took a slow, yet long, savoring sip.

Dianne subconsciously ran her fingers through her voluminous platinum hair. "Like me?" She asked.

"No," He smiled slightly. "hers was short... And thinning. Her name was Cassandra Rhema... People called her 'Cass'. That's just about all I remember. Dianne, I'm here because I want to keep you alive. That's all."