1.0 Consequence of Famed Gods

con·se·quence n.

1. Something that logically or naturally follows from an action or condition
2. The relation of a result to its cause.
3. A logical conclusion or inference.
4. Importance in rank or position: scientists of consequence.
5. Significance; importance: an issue of consequence.

Someone we loved is gone, someone the community adored—and quite possibly feared out of concern—is no longer amongst us. It's funny, really, how people that would otherwise shun you grieve so easily, as if in death to satisfy and confess sins of speaking behind your back in life, they must act buddy-buddy and friendly. As if they'd known you their whole lives; coincidence is, these people have know the deceased his whole life, they just never liked the fact his heart beat rhythmically and healthily.

Sitting here in the back, it reminds me how life really isn't as precious as people make it. Oh no, God gave you life—no, evolution over thousands of years of being a boneless fish did that, maybe an ameba looking thing with a nucleus, and that's about it. This "God" isn't great and powerful, trust me on this, I speak entirely out of personal encounter.

But now I'm on a tangent that could last decades. The deceased, he's the one I loved. Misunderstood, he came to me…no, maybe I went to him. We got along, it was like fitting the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle in, though I've yet to figure out if he was the puzzle piece or the whole. But remorse, that I don't feel—a pang of guilt, sure, but that's imbred in our senses when someone dies. I was attached, more than I ever have been in my existence, but I'm not going to cry, no. Looking to the pale, tender flesh of my wrist the ribbon reminds me: Do not open until Christmas. It's my weakness you know, not the suicidal tendencies, the pleasure of pain and the sight of blood (which I do enjoy immensely, but with the life I lead it's nothing new), I mean the soft flesh there at the wrist. Press between the veins, in that little groove between bone, and ultimate pain is guaranteed, worse than being flayed. Pressure points, I can't stand them.

He couldn't either.

But I wasn't the only one that was emotional toward the limp body in the casket. No, among these people in black, make-up smeared and running, the falsities and apologies, one is left to be broken. No, not the family, they'll get over it, they never liked my love anyway. This one—he's sitting in the corner, face buried in hands clutched so tightly blood is pouring from flesh cut by nails, the knuckles are bright white—he bawls louder than the rest. It's a desperate wail of despair, knowing his friend, the one he knew to be his soulmate, is gone. As I watch him shake his head, mousy hair flying, I know—give or take a second or two—that in three weeks, two days, six hours, forty-seven minutes, and thirteen seconds he'll be dead with a bullet in his head, found in Terryall Creek, by his own hand. Oh, see, there's those suicidal tendencies again.

The one that should be here isn't, I don't need to look around to know. After all, he is the reason the casket is set on display. Now he's in the place he fears the most, in complete solitude. The irony of it is the bastard killed the one person that promised he'd never be alone again. It was fear. He didn't want change, he didn't want a safeguard, and what better way to insure you'll never be safe than kill it off? But I'm not angry with him, he's a good boy despite being a little on the whack side. I mean, I love him too, because they were opposites in every way possible. I loved him in a sadistic way, the way that allowed me to do the things I did.

Still do.

Yeah, I'll admit I had my part to play in this little escapade. Okay, maybe I'm the reason my love is dead, and the other fallen into himself. No one will ever know it, because the two that ever suspected were the ones mentioned. Hah, I cover my tracks all too well.

My love seems to sense his personal apocalypse—me—in the cathedral, despite being dead. If his spirit hadn't been broken before dying, I'm sure he'd be pimp-slapping me out of here right now, but since he isn't, well, I'm going to see him. For closure.

You know, it's amazing how they repaired a face that got shot, the jaw that was fragmented and shards of bone missing. And of course, the illusion of eyes, that I know aren't under those lids. One was shot out, the other rotted. But the hairstyle, that I can't condone; I guess it's what you've got to do when you're working with a corpse with half a face, huh?

I walk back through the crowds, my part in a little town's disaster done, the story of two boys, confused and exhausted, ended. I sigh and watch as those nearest me shudder, a tremour racking their bodies. They glance around to find the source of the internal chill, but they won't find it.

They never do.

So ends the Expo, or maybe, it's just beginning.

A/n: Nice intro, huh? x3 I know, it doesn't make sense, and it's not supposed to just yet. But as everything gets set up, you'll understand why it's so important to open this way. Trust me. ;D

This is the shortest you're going to get in this, but to elaborate further would crumble the plot. All chapters will be written in a different format, third-omiscent, past-tense, yadda yadda. Perspective changes entirely. This is the first, and most likey last time you'll be in this character's head, so enjoy as it last.

Any readers from my previous fic should be warned: this isn't random floo-floo fluffy crap, and it won't be. Ever. If you like it like that, I might consider not reading, unless you're in the mood for psychological analysis. Then I do hope you give it a shot. Warnings and whatnot will be up later.