His Family

The last of the sun’s rays disappeared into the earth when a nudge of life—or death—unfurled from the depths of the coffins. He pushed at the heavy lid above him, stretching out his pale arms and creaky limbs. The vast night sky gleamed above him as he sat up straight, feeling the cool winter breeze against his upper body, relishing the shivers traversing through his hair.

Somewhere to the right, a rambunctious family was enjoying their monthly barbecue, their laughter seeping into the winds, traveling far and wide. He eyed them with a certain greed, a curious hunger. It would be easy, with the adults drunk on wine and bliss and the children hyper, all gangly limbs and jittery moods while running up and down the hills. The long, quiet, dark hills.

The stars aligned differently tonight, gathered around the moon which glowed with a tinge of green and misery. Its shine reflected on the forest of coffins, sparkled throughout the grounds. He was left in the dark, able to see the ethereal object responsible for his existence but powerless to call to its spirits. Hope hid in the dark. 

He climbed out of his beautifully varnished cage, feeling the scratch of the dead leaves and stray twigs under his feet. The community was starting to rise, and the familiar silent wanderings and minimal greetings seeped into view. He hated them. He hated their useless, mindless journeys through the afterlife, hated their comfortability with dull repetition, hated their pitying glances.

His neighbor waved a wary hello in his direction, twitching and fidgeting. She shifted in her place, awkward in the presence of silence, and he almost wished her shuffling would create white noise. She was new, still an outsider to the rest of her life. Half of him wanted to tell her that meek behavior was pointless in the emotionless paradise they were shackled to as a prisoner with a brain but no beating heart, cruelly praying for death. But first-hand experience triumphed over the whimsy words of others. Everyone thinks they’re better, more equipped, until they fall trap to the same spells as those generations before them.

He ignored her, but she was relentless. “Where are you going?”

She knew precisely where he was going, but the herd of persistent gossips always needed more toxic fumes for their fire. “The general store.” 

He started to move forward again, but a thought crossed his mind. He turned abruptly, facing her with a questioning look. “Care to join?”

Her eyes grew wide and her eyebrows flew up. She stuttered as he stared in her direction, a humorless smirk spreading across his face. She shook her head, twice, and with the speed of an overactive bunny. His eyes trailed her as she left, his heartless expression following her to the morning crowds. She looked back a couple of times, the last of which was responded with a mocking wave.

He entertained being cordial, but niceties weren’t expected from him. It was easier to propel his reputation. His conversations with others are all the more entertaining- and luckily, joyously infrequent. Regardless, every good story needed a villain, and he was more than happy to be the mirror in which everyone else frowned at their worst qualities. It was pathetic, seeing them so naive even after reaching the worst possible end.

Feet away from the edge he stopped by the smaller coffins next to his. His hands itched as he slowly shoved open the covers, only enough to peek at the calm, sleeping figures inside. His eyes roamed over their strongly black hair, short eyelashes, tan skin. They were perfect. An undeniable force tugged at the ends of his lips, and he smiled.

It felt like relief, even if only for a second. He looked around for passerby and once satisfied at the absence, dipped his head into the coffin, heading towards his son on the left. The short boy’s breathing was labored, the heavy exhales a contrast to his peaceful expression. He swallowed hard, then bared his teeth, targeting the soft flesh underneath his son’s ear. Mere centimeters from warm skin, he was slapped backwards with a rough waft of heat. His two fangs stung, burning the insides of his fleshy mouth and cold tongue. Frustration filled him in waves, achingly similar to every other time he had tried for the past eleven months. He looked at his two daughters, wondering whether to batter his already broken spirit with more failed attempts. That night, it was a no. It was impossible to see what tomorrow would hold.

__________

When he came back from the general store, the coffins were empty. His children were running around the graveyard, winding up and down the rows created by the dead. The crunch of leaves under their padding feet was deafening in the silence, drawing constant glances. While he received unwarranted sympathy and skepticism, they saw narrowed eyes and sour mouths. 

They looked happy playing, happier than they’ve appeared in months. When the community finally noticed him, he shot them a withering glare and left for my coffin. They know not to touch his children.

He blended the usual mix of fruits, vegetables, and red food dye, pouring the concoction in the three glass bottles. When he came back out with the food, his children were waiting for me, huge smiles on their faces. Guilt rotted, festered in his veins as he looked down at them. Would they smile if they knew the truth?

“I’m starving,” his son moaned, practically clawing a bottle out of his hands. His older daughter pushed him aside, reprimanding him about manners or common courtesy or whatever other life lessons her seven year old brain felt necessary to spread to her younger brother. My younger daughter waited patiently in front of her two older siblings, watching them fight with wonder. 

He smiled faintly at the bunch, memorizing their features, preferences, behaviors. Before you can’t, his traitorous mind whispers. Before you finally tell the truth, his veracious mind yells. “Why don’t we all settle down and drink?”

His children snapped up at his voice, lining up patiently with their hands out. He handed them their red smoothies in glass appliances, holding up his own identical one with blood. 

After nourishing themselves, his daughters will show him the frisbee they found on the hills right outside the gravesite. He will watch them throw the toy around, watch them giggle at their discovery and the new fun. He will smile at his son collapsing next to him, ever dramatic, and ruffle his hair when he says something witty. 

He will wonder, as he has every day for a year, how when the time comes, he will explain himself to these three poor humans held captive by his own selfish desires.

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