The Nymph of my Imagination

Gone

A writing prompt from an app called Writer Challenges:

Your best friend has died leaving you a mysterious box. Inside contains answers to their death along with a bloodstained key that might be more than you can handle.

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Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock on the wall clicks into place as time moves forward while I stand still trying to cling to the past. 

How can he be gone? 

People are crowding around this small funeral home. Perfume and college mingle in with the scent of lilies throughout the building. The walls a soft beige with paintings, white couches and chairs, the vision of a magazine. Poise perfection. 

He would have hated this. All these snooty people breathing down each other's necks on what they knew more, how much fake time they spent. Liars. 

Money buys friendship.

These people want a taste of those riches. Sink their greedy claws as deep as they can into his pot of gold. The claustrophobia of their smothering presence is overwhelming.

Exiting out the clean glass doors I catch a glimpse of a man through the vehicles. Dark sunglasses and an old-style fedora on his head he watches and waits. I light my cigarette, looking back in his direction he has vanished. Was he even there?

My mind is playing tricks on me. This loss must be taking its toll more than I had originally thought. 

Inhaling deeply before blowing out a tinge of grey smoke I wish it was something else my lungs get their fill of. I could use the relaxation. 

My mind drifts back two days when I was told of Stan's untimely death. An unfortunate accident. Hit crossing the road to go to a Greek restaurant located downtown late Saturday night. 

Bullshit, he doesn't even like Greek

No answers. No investigation. Open-closed case deemed an accident. The Tabloids eat it up, 'Young Millionaire tragically struck down', paper after paper with his photo and 'developing news' plastered on every street corner and in every store. 

My cigarette is already the butt, throwing it down grabbing the pack from my pocket to light another. I want to mirror the suffocation I feel deep down. The weight is like a rock in the pit of my stomach. 

I see a shadow come into view on the asphalt. Glaring up its the same man from a moment ago, "what do you want?" I sneer. I'm in no mood. So far people have given me my space to grieve, really they just don't want to deal with my mouth and fists. 

He isn't shaken by my attitude. "The same thing you are looking for, Answers." His voice is deep and low, almost like a whisper to the people who pass us by like we aren't even here. 

I take the smoking stick from my mouth, blowing the smoke slowly upward to the blue sky. "I don't know what you're talking about." Saying it with a threat lingering between us. Still, he doesn't ruffle up or cowers, just giving a lopsided smirk. "I can see why he chose you for this, Colin." He tells me. 

How does he know my name? Choose me for what?

His arm outstretches with a small blue box in hand for me to take. Looking back at him I can't see his eyes through the shades, his stance hasn't changed and his face rests back to the unmoving stone it was before. 

Reaching cautiously I grasp it in my hand. "The answers you seek are in this box. If you value your loved ones you will tell them nothing of this, do you understand?" He clutched to the small object refusing to let go until I give him my full truth. "Yes." My voice is stronger than it has been for the past few days. I need these answers. My friend deserves better than this. 

Putting it in my right hand I slowly open the top to reveal a note. Numbers are scribbled hastily across the small yellow paper. Coordinates. Taking it out a small rusting key is found hidden under in the far corner of the box. 

What the fuck?

It's not rust. Its blood. Deep, dark, crusted blood. 

Looking up the man is gone. No explanation or answers. What have I gotten myself into?