#88 Short Story

But that isn't my fault. How is that supposed to be my fault? I never intended to be..

There were people everywhere. Fewer than the usual men in grey hues, but still too many. They were all dressed in black—dark, uniform, almost suffocating. Though the palette could blur into other indistinct shades, it was clear there was nothing but washed-out black. The same as the mascara that ran beneath the masks of ugly people decorated with plain vanity. A few wore the color with great performance, as actors of tragedy should.

"You must be tired, young man," a pale old woman appeared. She held a pamphlet in one hand and a purse at her waist, which she clutched with the other. "Why don't you rest in the guest room? Or if you want... oh! Never mind, your aunts were using her room."

Her voice was concerned, caring—with a hint of something else. With motif. With insult. He knew.

The young man smiled.

You all killed her.

"I'm fine here, thank you," he replied. His voice came out masked, as it should be. They were all judging him anyway. With their piercing gazes, mocking looks.

The pale old woman smiled and went elsewhere.

The young man continued staring into the abyss shaped like a wooden box, adorned with an expensive price tag, etched with childishly mocking patterns that would forever go unseen after.

He tried to remember moments from the past—both the ones he enjoyed and the ones he didn't. There were none. And he wouldn't remember them all anyway after.

At times, he smiled. Then his face went blank. His eyes stilled. Then his thoughts wandered. Then his gaze followed. A cycle of boredom—for the one left, and for one not as unique as he thought himself to be.

A star died in a far-off galaxy, many light-years away. And he himself would be just as insignificant to the others.

Yet for some reason, he couldn't find any reason to cry.

He was trying to, but he couldn't. Maybe he didn't want to be seen in tears. Yet he also didn't want to be seen as heartless. But was that of any importance for the few moments left?

Why am I even here? Why are those people here? They're the ones to be blamed. But I should be blamed too. What am I supposed to do next? After this, things will go back to normal. As things always should be. Has she not made any difference? Should I have made a difference?

Then a strange feeling of tenesmus crept up on him. He did not like that feeling.

"Big brother," a familiar female voice called out. Though the person who spoke felt unfamiliar, he immediately remembered.

There was supposed to be nothing in common between them except for the wooden box floating on thin, ugly metallic rods, surrounded by flowers incomparable to the ones made by the one inside.

Should they even be called flowers?

"Hey," the young man smiled. Though he gave her a quick glance, his stare returned to the wooden box.

"Don't be like that," she gave a soft giggle. "You still remember me, right?"

The young man sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said. He clearly meant to apologize, though he did not know what to reply or even what to talk about with her.

He simply did not see her as important as the wooden box.

"It's not your fault," said his sister.

The man fixed his gaze on the box. He heard her, but it was never worth much attention. He had already accepted everyone blaming him, so another person holding a different opinion meant nothing to him.

Although he felt a bit happy. He was reminded of that one beautiful scene he had watched from a very unforgettable, beautiful movie.

"It's not your fault," his sister repeated as she hugged him.

He let her. It had been a while since he felt another person's warmth. Though he already knew it was not real—temporary, fleeting—something that happened in the heat of the moment.

Or perhaps just that one moment. A sort of... tradition. A cliché people follow during funerals.

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