The sun beats down on my back, scorching its way through the rich, dark fabric of my clothes, the unyielding heat turning this day even more relentless. No one bothered telling the North Carolina sun that it’s still May, and this heatwave that is so intent on lashing out on us is uncalled for. Even though it’s technically still spring, there isn’t a hint of a breeze in the air to give us any comfort. Just the blazing sun overhead, making this despicable affair that much more insufferable.
The somber crowd curses the rising temperature, shifting from left to right in their restlessness and sweat. Some go as far as using umbrellas to provide some shade in the hopes it will cool them down, while others just suffer the sun’s punishment and stew in their discomfort in silence.
My nose twitches in disgust, but it has little to do with the stench of body odor in the air and more to do with the scene in front of me. My revulsion to this charade is potent, yet my sorrowful frown is stitched in place, mimicking everyone else’s expression to a fault.
Fucking fakes, the lot of them. With their false tears and wet, stained handkerchiefs.
However, it’s not the mourning crowd that has my blood boiling. It’s the men standing side-by-side in front of the polished caskets who deserve my utter contempt. I look at all four of them, appearing forlorn in their grief as if they weren’t the the reason why we had to bury two of Asheville’s most esteemed inhabitants today. Their fabricated act is impeccable, making everyone here join in their misery. It sickens me how well they play their part in this abhorring sham, pretending to be heartbroken rather than admitting it’s because of them that these two bodies are meeting their final resting place.
The preacher continues with his rant, while the mourners’ soft, lamenting wails give his words that extra pitch of melancholy. I feel my nose flair in loathing, and I have to bite my inner cheek to prevent me from scoffing at the ridiculous words being uttered by the clergyman.
“For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God, it is of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother and sweet sister here departed. We, therefore, commit their bodies to the ground as our Lord intended. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Right.
Some of us aren’t made of the same substance. Some of us were born and molded in lies, betrayals, and hate. My eyes lock, yet again, on the subjects of my disdain, knowing they are proof that we are not all born equal, nor should we leave this earth in the same way we entered it. And if the Almighty is too busy to deal with their pesky souls, then a vengeful, earthbound hand should guarantee their fate.
I clench my fist beside me as I watch them.
They think they’ve gotten away with it.
That no one is aware of their scheming ways.
But I know.
I know it all.
Not just what occurred on that fatal night, but also how their lives are nothing but well-fabricated tales that portray an immaculate exterior and conceal the corruption within. They think they rule the world, but their time is over. One by one, I’ll tear them apart and make them pay for their arrogance.
I repress the sinister smile that begs to tug at my lips, knowing exactly who I’ll play with first. My choice might be obvious, but it still gives me a sick satisfaction by starting off with the weakest link in their twisted quartet. The one who thinks himself invincible, with no vulnerabilities for anyone to exploit—Finn Walker.
I discreetly observe him running his fingers through his wavy blond hair, looking like the quarterback god he is, even though at this moment he is miles away from any football field. Not one tear falls down his passive face, yet his deep-blue eyes are pensively locked to the two coffins in front of him. To everyone gathered around, they’d think he has nerves of steel under such depressing circumstances. They don’t realize that the trail of sweat trickling down Finn’s neck isn’t from the blazing heat, but from an emotion no one would ever dream of him having—fear.
He should be afraid.
Very afraid.
They all should be.
My examining eye leaves Finn’s stoic pretense only to land on the six-foot-three, toned, shrewd frame of the friend at his side—Easton Price.