THE BEAST ─ five hargreeves

[ 035 ] five unlocks the sixth stage of grief

XXXV.

f i v e   u n l o c k s
t h e   s i x t h   s t a g e
o f   g r i e f

[ written from the
personal narrative of
five hargreeves ]

—IT'S A STUPID thing, but I've often wondered if I was truly human. That is—if I'm still human. Can you call yourself human if you are like me? If you've done the things I've done? If you've felt the things I've felt?

I don't know.

I hate not knowing things. I hate not understanding things.

That's what Zara's death felt like. Up to then, you see, it was all clear in my mind. Everything made sense. Even her betrayal made sense. But from then on it was as though a knife fell, cutting my life into two halves.

There was the half in which I understood—in which everything made sense. And then there was the half in which Zara was dead.

The rest of them—my siblings—took Allison back to the Academy. I didn't go. Not because I cared about Zara any more than I cared about Allison, but because Zara had no one. She had no one who cared about her, no one who loved her.

Of course, I was never in love with Zara. I refuse to be in love with Zara.

Why? Because I'm smart. That's why. No explanation necessary.

Right—what was I saying again?

Yes, that night. I was standing there, in the cabin, with Zara's body at the other end of the bedroom.

Arrangements. I remember Diego—or was it Klaus?—saying something about arrangements before they left.

What a shitty word it is and all the things it stands for. The things in life that have grand words—love—sex—life—death—hate—those aren't the things that govern existence at all.

It's lots of other pettifogging, degrading things. Things you have to endure, things you never think about until they happen to you. Undertakers, coroners, police officers, arrangements for funerals, inquests. And then that insistence on dressing like a teenage goth just to show you care. Of all the stupid things!

I'm putting this down now because that's what I was thinking that evening, standing in the room with Zara's corpse. The whole affair was miserable. I didn't want to be near her, or look at her, or even think about her. Dead bodies are awful. They stop being people, and then they're just slabs of rotting meat and it's awful.

So I went downstairs and made myself a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich. It wasn't very good, though, because Jenkins only had the crunchy peanut butter. Freakin' psychopath.

I guess this is the point where I should probably say what was written in the letter—the one penned in green with the ink stains all over it.

It wasn't very interesting—not a suicide note or anything—just a strange little slip of paper Zara's murderer had slipped into her hand after shooting her through the forehead.

Dear Zara (it ran)—You fancy yourself judge, jury, and executioner, darling? A horrible mistake, really. You should've known better than to entertain thoughts of betraying us. You did know better.

With love,
The Handler

So there it was. Nothing interesting, and I didn't really know what it meant, but it did make one thing clear—The Handler had killed Zara, carved up her face, then dressed her in that horrible judge's outfit. The scarlet robes—the white wig . . .