Chapter 9

0 0 0
                                    

   It was Lauren who ripped through the aftermath, crawling over splintered timber and betrayal’s masquerade, her hands seeking Alex’s visage amidst the ashen implication of his existence. Her exhortations to the frayed segments of her reality, the patchwork of fraying emotion, spoke of a treasonous confederacy torn asunder. For what good does it to unveil the waxing moon only to see it fractured in the pond of our own undoing? As the friendships now imprisoned within the encasement of shrapnel and tears reflected upon the soliloquy of actions undone, they also knew notably of threnodies ungulped, of goodbyes unsaid.
  
   Yet, as they bore the biers of their waning faith to the funeral dirge played by their trembling hands and shattered hearts, the world, radiantly indifferent, echoed with Annunciation that it still smeared for time, still reached for stars without care tell their children of laughter and possibility. It beckoned to them—a slate of pallid potential, offering its molten canvas for new sketches of togetherness, for the promises of a fortitude nimbused by the triumphs against their yeoman’s tragedy.
  
   And in the quietude that billowed in the banyan shadow thieved from the sable gales, they began. Whispered eulogies were clothed in midnight’s lace, their tears tracer by some chimerical comet, the pyre their pain both imploding and remembering. They gathered in the half-life, counting each other's breaths with guarded mendicancy, vowing silently amidst the fragility that spindles the sewn seams of life with its enfeebled uniformity.
  
  

A wolf in sheep clothing Where stories live. Discover now