Poison Hemlocks

Epilogue - Poisoned

"The garden is beautiful in sight, butterflies fluttering over the scent of serenity, and yet beneath that beauty, hidden under rocks and pots and leaves below leaves, are those who wish to make this garden's beauty theirs, to see each leaf and each petal tremble into their hands; insects, infestations, parasites."

Paper closes the book, letting it rest on the table - a handwritten poetry collection by his father, full of silly poems he'd write in his free time.

Paper has never been one for poetry, but finding this particular journal whilst evidence was being collected at the scene of the crime - the warehouse - convinced him to indulge in a bit of it.

It's amusing to say the least, as he makes a parallel to the verse he'd just read in his head. That is why most engage in poetry, yes? Because they have experiences resonating with a verse or two?

Hemlock is the garden, and the last few months had been Paper weeding out the parasites in order to keep the garden as beautiful as it is. Each parasite taken cared of in typical Hemlock fashion, and it is to a point where Hemlock has reached its peak.

Their businesses are flourishing, clients come and go as easily as counting from one to ten; loyalists, elitists, members who are willing to snitch and stitch, who know what to do when a bloody knife is handed to them, who know their place.

And with the arrest of their leader, String, alongside several others who turned themselves in as an effort to keep the production going, the police believes Hemlock has disbanded, unbeknownst to them what the underworld blankets.

Paper can take the reigns now, no longer needing to hide in the dark, under rocks and pots, behind String. The garden and its beauty is his.

All he had left to do was weed out the final parasite, having already lured him in with the promise of love, an undeniably ugly love, but an ugliness he was too blind to notice - correction: too blind to care to notice.

Paper sits in a private visiting room - something easy to obtain when you're sitting on the throne of the underworld. Dark walls, a barred window and nothing else to peak into the room from, security cameras not blinking as a bit of money could buy. Four seats by a table, two on each side, and he occupies one of them, waiting.

A miniature pot of poisonous hemlock accompany him. It's a nice touch.

At last, after five minutes or so, the long-awaited inmate walks in, an officer whose face he's seen several times at the bottom of his heel escorting him.

String stares at Paper, an eagerness in his eyes that left a bad taste in his mouth, though Paper knows by now the kind of man he is. This amount of joy - even as your handcuffs are being attached to the bar on the table, as your clothes are a faded orange, even as the man who turned you in sits opposite you - is to be expected.

And here Paper thought for a moment String would be filled with hatred and disdain for him, for all he's done to him. But no, instead, the man has been poisoned, still wrapped so damn tightly around his finger, it'd reach his arm at this point, then his shoulders, then his neck, then his head.

Hell, it's already reached his heart.

Only when the guard leaves did they speak. "Real clever, eh?" String starts. "Usin' my real name while I take yours."

"What," Paper replies, with the same amount of smugness. "Dean Akhlys doesn't fit me?"

String gives him an exaggerated shake of his head. "Not a bit! I think William Shipman has a much better ring to it, ya want it back?"

"Finders keepers."

"Thought you'd say that."

They share a laugh, with String's being more histerical than Paper's, as they always used to do. When the laughter died down, String continues on to stare at him, like he's the most beautiful flower in this infested garden, the same gaze that always told Paper just how far his longing for him went - a completely blind and stupid love.