Prompt 28 - Gypsy, Death's First Dance
The letter in my hand shakes as I open it. There's an official company seal on it from the construction company. It doesn't have the perforated edges that means its a check. I glance at the house, making certain that Mama's not here. She'd take the letter.
Zaroff's voice cuts through the tension in the room, snagging my attention "Gypsy, now. You need to hear this." I follow Zaroff into the back room and he puts the body bag down. I stare at it.
The letter slides open easily enough. The seal breaks. I slide the two pieces of paper out.
"We regret to inform you that Mikhail Rossa has been killed in a construction accident..." I don't actually read the rest of the letter. I keep reading that one line.
"Joker is dead." I don't believe him. It takes him repeating it twice before it sinks in. I call the city together. I tell them the risks and then I call the family.
I keep the second sheet of paper. It's a poem my father wrote. It's folded and worn and tattered and I tuck it into my pocket before I carry the letter inside. I have no idea what Mama will do. I only know that I've lost everything.
"Joker's dead." They think I'm joking at first. Then it sinks in. Shock. Horror. I shut it off in my head. I can't let it come out now. If I look at it right now, if I feel it right now, I will not be able to function, lead, do anything. I shut it off. I will pay for it later.
Mama won't give the letter back. She doesn't cry. She doesn't really react except to open more gin.
"Will there be a funeral?" I whisper.
"Yes."
"Can we go?"
"No."
There's no argument. It's too far for me to run to with the younger sibs. I don't know how my older brothers will react.
It takes hours until I can get alone. I have to go deep into the woods to do it. And when I'm there, I sit down by the foot of the trees and I put my head on my knees and I sob and sob and sob until I think my heart will snap in two.
I don't cry tonight. Not in front of them. Not now. because when I open that door I'm going to cry like that day in the woods. I'm going to not be able to erase the image of her eyes, missing and gone from bullets, the blood, just like I've never erased the memory of that one line of text forever stamped into that paper.
Zaroff's voice cuts through the tension in the room, snagging my attention "Gypsy, now. You need to hear this." I follow Zaroff into the back room and he puts the body bag down. I stare at it.
The letter slides open easily enough. The seal breaks. I slide the two pieces of paper out.
"We regret to inform you that Mikhail Rossa has been killed in a construction accident..." I don't actually read the rest of the letter. I keep reading that one line.
"Joker is dead." I don't believe him. It takes him repeating it twice before it sinks in. I call the city together. I tell them the risks and then I call the family.
I keep the second sheet of paper. It's a poem my father wrote. It's folded and worn and tattered and I tuck it into my pocket before I carry the letter inside. I have no idea what Mama will do. I only know that I've lost everything.
"Joker's dead." They think I'm joking at first. Then it sinks in. Shock. Horror. I shut it off in my head. I can't let it come out now. If I look at it right now, if I feel it right now, I will not be able to function, lead, do anything. I shut it off. I will pay for it later.
Mama won't give the letter back. She doesn't cry. She doesn't really react except to open more gin.
"Will there be a funeral?" I whisper.
"Yes."
"Can we go?"
"No."
There's no argument. It's too far for me to run to with the younger sibs. I don't know how my older brothers will react.
It takes hours until I can get alone. I have to go deep into the woods to do it. And when I'm there, I sit down by the foot of the trees and I put my head on my knees and I sob and sob and sob until I think my heart will snap in two.
I don't cry tonight. Not in front of them. Not now. because when I open that door I'm going to cry like that day in the woods. I'm going to not be able to erase the image of her eyes, missing and gone from bullets, the blood, just like I've never erased the memory of that one line of text forever stamped into that paper.