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These are the ones in which I indulge, the ones that dictate my actions and fuel my ambition. Frustration. Anger. Disgust. Even desire, if it’s through selfish acts; the gratification of it, both mentally and physically.
These things I understand and control, lest they take over me—as they try to do on occasion.
I’m not a perfect man. Only my intentions are.
The pastor asks everyone to bow their heads in prayer and they do. Except for me. Andher.
Miss Green simply stares ahead, unblinking, her gaze sparkling with thought, her eyes becoming crystalized honey. I continue watching her. Scrutinizing her. The longer I do, the more piqued my interest becomes.
What is she thinking about?
And where the hell are the tears?
The petition to an unseen deity ends, and everyone lifts their heads. A middle-aged woman, the former manager for the Green household, covers her face with both hands. Her round frame shakes from the force of her sobs. Real or fabricated, I’m unsure.
Miss Green doesn’t stop to question the authenticity of the tears. The young woman immediately embraces the older one, her full, pink lips whispering words of comfort while patting the housekeeper until the woman gathers her composure.
The pastor gestures to the casket, proposing everyone say their good-byes. The first man to walk over is the family’s driver. He takes his cap in hand and bows his head. His mouth moves briefly, clearly a man of few words, and then he’s stepping back.
Before he can blend in with the crowd, the senator’s daughter walks up to him and takes his hand. She gives the man a smile—a sad one, but a smile nonetheless—and says something that has the driver’s shoulders straightening with pride. The interaction between them is familiar, comfortable.
I squint, not bothering to hide my skepticism. No one can see me at this distance, but I find myself wanting to get closer. It goes against my rules to get near my victim’s loved ones, so I don’t. However, rules don’t stifle my want. My need to examine things more in depth in order to gain understanding.
Miss Green perplexes me.
She is the person most devastated by the senator’s death, yetshe’sthe one offering comfort instead of receiving it. And not just to anyone, but the staff. People she shouldn’t acknowledge unless it’s with a task for them to carry out.
I’ve met many men and women who come from the upper class, and none of them have a personal relationship with those on their payroll. They believe it’s beneath them. A financial division that’s been around since money and status became prominent in human culture.
But not to Miss Green.
She treats each individual like a person of worth.
It’s confounding… and refreshing.Ifit’s real.
I don’t believe her to be sincere. A funeral is the perfect excuse for a woman to gain sympathy and attention. For her to shine in the spotlight and be adored for simply being. Perhaps this is why she hasn’t cried yet.
Miss Green is preparing her stage.
That is something I understand and have witnessed on numerous occasions. She’ll be no different than the others. Just like she wears those pearls, she’ll wear selfishness disguised as grief.
So, I wait.
My anticipation grows with every person who walks up to the casket. They leave shortly after, but not without the dutiful daughter greeting them farewell, a lily in her hand that she clutches like a lifeline. The rain falls harder and faster, scattering the mourners like a flock of ravens, the group quickly disappearing.
Until one person remains.
Miss Green stands there, a stoic expression etched in her features. Her hair, drenched by the rain, drips water onto her already soaked clothing. She doesn’t move for a long while, despite the storm, despite the lack of audience.
Her continued stillness draws me, pulls me toward her. I adjust the collar of my coat to shield my face and gradually make my way in her direction. To a passerby I look like someone visiting the deceased. On any other day, that would be true.
I have mourned.
Once.
My steps bring me close enough to see the woman’s bottom lip trembling, now tinged with blue due to the cold. Miss Green wraps her arms around her middle, flower still in hand, and sinks to the ground with a small cry of anguish.
Finally, the tears come.
