An Orphan At Last
15 years after his father died and left his mother a twisted, lonely woman and him virtually alone in the world, he was finally an orphan. He really did have no one but himself. All his life, he'd been somebody's child. There had been someone in the world responsible for him.
His mother had died as she had lived – alone. She had been found by her neighbour. It was a low key death for a low key life, which he thought very fitting. His mother didn't deserve a hero's death, a tragic death, because that would make too much of her bitter, squalid existence. He hated himself for thinking that way, but it was true. She had never struggled for him, never fought for him, never once taken his side. Why should he give her the honour she never gave him?
The other mourners, what few there were for a solitary, hostile woman, were reserved. They had judged their reactions by his. He was together, surprisingly so, and so they were holding it together. It wasn't difficult. While he had no hate for his mother, he certainly held no love for her either.
The weather fitted the day – an overcast gun-metal sky, closing in on the small group, threatening rain at any moment – and it was cold. Cemeteries always were. It was the family plot, and he knew one day it was likely he'd be buried here too. The thought caused an involuntary shiver, and he attempted to banish it quickly. There were worse places to spend eternity though, than under the boughs of such magnificent old trees, lying in infinite rest entangled in their roots, completing the cycle of life and giving yourself back to the earth that had nourished your life.
The formality over he turned away from the open graveside, and walked back towards the waiting funeral car. He was halted by a hand on his shoulder. Steeling himself for another show of sympathy, he turned back.
"Hi,"
A simple syllable came floating across the years. The woman who stood before him, so starkly familiar but aged beyond her years, was smiling, a small and awkward smile.
"Marie,"
Saying her name, like seeing her face, provoked no emotional response from him. He had given up being angry with her a long time ago, and he couldn't bring himself to remember those days.
"I didn't know you were here,"
He said flatly. Earlier, he had thought he'd seen her across the chapel, but he had dismissed it as a figment of his imagination. Why would it be her? Why would she come back now?
"I'm sorry,"
"What for? She was your mother too,"
The brunette winced visibly. Marie would be 28 now, he calculated quickly. Too old and too proud to apologise for what she'd done. She couldn't apologise and he wouldn't believe her if she tried.
"Are you coming to the tea?"
He asked, more to be polite than anything. She shook her head.
"I wouldn't be welcome,"
"Who there would know you, Marie? Who do you think still hates you?"
There were tears in his sister's expressive navy eyes. Everything about Marie had always been unique, unusual. Until the day she left, because that had been the ultimate expression of normality. Her face was pinched, trying not to cry, knowing there was no sympathy for her in her brother.
"You,"
She muttered, so low he almost didn't hear it.
"No, Marie, don't flatter yourself,"
The pause, whilst he gauged her response, was tense.
"All these years later, what do you expect? Forgiveness? Because I can't give you that,"
She snatched suddenly for the handkerchief in her breast pocket, and hid her face behind it. He could hear muffled crying, but still couldn't muster any sympathy. He felt nothing for his sister's pain, and if that made him hollow, then so be it. The sobbing ebbed rhythmically, like early evening waves meeting the beach, every time she regained control, she was quickly overtaken again.
"I've got to go,"
He said quickly, and walked away again, without a glance back.
"Who was that?"
Emily, the neighbour who was probably his mother's only friend, asked as he approached the waiting black limo. Her gaze was fixed on the lonely figure who now stood somewhere in the middle distance, facing the open grave with her back towards the departing funeral party.
"Just an old family friend,"
It wasn't worth explaining. Emily knew little of the family's history. She knew of him only because she had met him. His sister was a stranger to her. His sister was a stranger to everyone.
15 years after his father died and left his mother a twisted, lonely woman and him virtually alone in the world, he was finally an orphan. He really did have no one but himself. All his life, he'd been somebody's child. There had been someone in the world responsible for him.
His mother had died as she had lived – alone. She had been found by her neighbour. It was a low key death for a low key life, which he thought very fitting. His mother didn't deserve a hero's death, a tragic death, because that would make too much of her bitter, squalid existence. He hated himself for thinking that way, but it was true. She had never struggled for him, never fought for him, never once taken his side. Why should he give her the honour she never gave him?
The other mourners, what few there were for a solitary, hostile woman, were reserved. They had judged their reactions by his. He was together, surprisingly so, and so they were holding it together. It wasn't difficult. While he had no hate for his mother, he certainly held no love for her either.
The weather fitted the day – an overcast gun-metal sky, closing in on the small group, threatening rain at any moment – and it was cold. Cemeteries always were. It was the family plot, and he knew one day it was likely he'd be buried here too. The thought caused an involuntary shiver, and he attempted to banish it quickly. There were worse places to spend eternity though, than under the boughs of such magnificent old trees, lying in infinite rest entangled in their roots, completing the cycle of life and giving yourself back to the earth that had nourished your life.
The formality over he turned away from the open graveside, and walked back towards the waiting funeral car. He was halted by a hand on his shoulder. Steeling himself for another show of sympathy, he turned back.
"Hi,"
A simple syllable came floating across the years. The woman who stood before him, so starkly familiar but aged beyond her years, was smiling, a small and awkward smile.
"Marie,"
Saying her name, like seeing her face, provoked no emotional response from him. He had given up being angry with her a long time ago, and he couldn't bring himself to remember those days.
"I didn't know you were here,"
He said flatly. Earlier, he had thought he'd seen her across the chapel, but he had dismissed it as a figment of his imagination. Why would it be her? Why would she come back now?
"I'm sorry,"
"What for? She was your mother too,"
The brunette winced visibly. Marie would be 28 now, he calculated quickly. Too old and too proud to apologise for what she'd done. She couldn't apologise and he wouldn't believe her if she tried.
"Are you coming to the tea?"
He asked, more to be polite than anything. She shook her head.
"I wouldn't be welcome,"
"Who there would know you, Marie? Who do you think still hates you?"
There were tears in his sister's expressive navy eyes. Everything about Marie had always been unique, unusual. Until the day she left, because that had been the ultimate expression of normality. Her face was pinched, trying not to cry, knowing there was no sympathy for her in her brother.
"You,"
She muttered, so low he almost didn't hear it.
"No, Marie, don't flatter yourself,"
The pause, whilst he gauged her response, was tense.
"All these years later, what do you expect? Forgiveness? Because I can't give you that,"
She snatched suddenly for the handkerchief in her breast pocket, and hid her face behind it. He could hear muffled crying, but still couldn't muster any sympathy. He felt nothing for his sister's pain, and if that made him hollow, then so be it. The sobbing ebbed rhythmically, like early evening waves meeting the beach, every time she regained control, she was quickly overtaken again.
"I've got to go,"
He said quickly, and walked away again, without a glance back.
"Who was that?"
Emily, the neighbour who was probably his mother's only friend, asked as he approached the waiting black limo. Her gaze was fixed on the lonely figure who now stood somewhere in the middle distance, facing the open grave with her back towards the departing funeral party.
"Just an old family friend,"
It wasn't worth explaining. Emily knew little of the family's history. She knew of him only because she had met him. His sister was a stranger to her. His sister was a stranger to everyone.