APOCALYPSE

                   the  bodies  are  piled  to  one  side  of  the  room.  a  bit  sloppy  ,  but  he’s  setting  the  whole  shed  on  fire  soon  anyway  so  it  hardly  matters.  ‘  in  my  defense  ,  ’  he  lifts  a  placating  hand  ,  ‘  they  started  it.  ’

              he watches from beyond the treeline as numbers one to four file into the cemetery, solemn as a shadow. trotting at the heels of the imposing figure of reginald hargreeves, their backs straight and shoulders hunched. he watches as the small casket is lowered to the ground, and the dirt is tossed over varnished wood until it was covered completely.

              something in his chest shifts and writhes. beyond the depth-less apathy something broken breaks further , not close enough to break the surface yet but near enough it’s outline begins to take shape. he’s not here to convince himself to join the mourners. he’s mourned plenty , and often , and still : ben died as he always did. young and scared and overwhelmed. there’s nothing new to be gleaned from this death , nothing he hasn’t learned from any other before it. and yet the numbers , stubborn and forthcoming , did not predict this. it was something he’d missed or dismissed or ignored. a MISCALCULATION.

              his eyes close against the current of emotion. the tidal wave is abrupt in it’s rise and its fall. he breathes in and out , slowly , but he is not yet composed when the death lord makes his presence known. ‘ did you see him ? ’ he asks quickly , though his head is turned away from his companion. ‘ is he down there with you or did he choose to stay here again ?  does he know what killed him ? ’   does he know it was ME ?