Dream ✝ 001
The room was dark, dark and still. Everywhere, black suits and black shoes, still shadows falling across the bed with its heavy curtains drawn back and cast along the walls, dwarfing the figures of a similar shape that stood by in mourning.
It was quiet, enough to be disturbing and unnatural among such a crowd. There was no soft mourning music, no muffled crying, just the occasional cough and restless scrape of shoes across the carpeted floor.
But then a soft whimper broke the silence, a child's voice sobbing into the neighboring adult's sleeve. "Big brother."
Merryweather. Her head was bowed, her dress black and somber. She turned her cheek and squeezed the wool jacket standing beside her, pale fingers digging into the coarse material.
The disconsolate sound of her crying seemed to swell in the silence of the room, no words of comfort offered to Merry, no arm guiding her away or trying to quiet her with an embrace. There was no relief, until the heart-breaking sobs turned into a shrill wail of:
"Cain!"
Her distraught face had lifted from the neighboring arm that cradled it, bright tears streaking down her face. There should be a flush there in her cheeks, even if it was unhappy color. But there was nothing, save the white and silver of pale skin and tears.
Her lower lip trembled. And in the center of her round, wet eyes, the person in the bed was reflected.
Folded hands, black coat, closed eyes, white lips. Dark lashes, dark hair, and between those frozen hands, a crucifix was clasped.
"Brother," Merry repeated, an uneven breath as the arm to her left sought to pull her back and away from the bed.
Then a shadow fell across the deceased, a black silhouette swallowing up the folded arms and crucifix, but not the face. In a soft murmur, the man paid his respects.
"Rest in peace, Lord Cain."
[Cain opened his eyes with a start, sitting up and shoving the heat of the covers back -- unaware of the Dreamberry recording at the bedside table beside him]
It was quiet, enough to be disturbing and unnatural among such a crowd. There was no soft mourning music, no muffled crying, just the occasional cough and restless scrape of shoes across the carpeted floor.
But then a soft whimper broke the silence, a child's voice sobbing into the neighboring adult's sleeve. "Big brother."
Merryweather. Her head was bowed, her dress black and somber. She turned her cheek and squeezed the wool jacket standing beside her, pale fingers digging into the coarse material.
The disconsolate sound of her crying seemed to swell in the silence of the room, no words of comfort offered to Merry, no arm guiding her away or trying to quiet her with an embrace. There was no relief, until the heart-breaking sobs turned into a shrill wail of:
"Cain!"
Her distraught face had lifted from the neighboring arm that cradled it, bright tears streaking down her face. There should be a flush there in her cheeks, even if it was unhappy color. But there was nothing, save the white and silver of pale skin and tears.
Her lower lip trembled. And in the center of her round, wet eyes, the person in the bed was reflected.
Folded hands, black coat, closed eyes, white lips. Dark lashes, dark hair, and between those frozen hands, a crucifix was clasped.
"Brother," Merry repeated, an uneven breath as the arm to her left sought to pull her back and away from the bed.
Then a shadow fell across the deceased, a black silhouette swallowing up the folded arms and crucifix, but not the face. In a soft murmur, the man paid his respects.
"Rest in peace, Lord Cain."
[Cain opened his eyes with a start, sitting up and shoving the heat of the covers back -- unaware of the Dreamberry recording at the bedside table beside him]