Very quick one shot done while going through my beta reading. Now back to that!
Pictures were the saddest things in the world, Mr. Mundy thought, while he stood in the living room of his family home and gazed over each one in turn. Bright, happy faces reflected back at him of his younger days, back when there was a simple cattle ranch and he had good strong hands to work them. Back before he'd left it behind for something else, and, while he'd disappointed his family, had found himself happy with his decisions anyways.
There was a picture of the family dog and himself, and he couldn't remember exactly why, but the frown reflecting back at him told him it was about the time just before he'd left everything behind for some other world.
After that, with every other picture there was hardly a smile on any of them, and he couldn't help but hold a strange bitterness at no one but the pictures themselves.
They were a blaring reminder of who he was, and why he was here, Mr. Mundy realized, as he played with the black tie he'd been forced into. Just outside a soft, familiar voice was talking to some other relative he hardly remembered, telling more stories about him when he was alive.
Mr. Mundy was sick of listening to those stories. Especially as he gazed up at that face behind that glass, and how those eyes just glared back at him with such ferocity. It boiled him over, and he had to turn away from all the damn pictures she had put up.
Good memories, she said.
Sad memories, he thought.
Sad, bloody memories, full of fights over a rifle and a phone that constantly buzzed them in and out. Biting words that were drowned by the sounds of shouting and feeble attempts to make up. Excuses that sounded like nothing more than pleas of acceptance, and refusal. Always refusal.
Why had he refused him so many times?
Mr. Mundy found himself outside now, drifting amidst black colored relatives and their tearful faces. Slowly moving away from all the apologies and the: "He was a good man, we'll miss him dearly's". They sounded fake, they had hardly known him at all. He'd been like him, hardly sociable, and hardly around to let anyone get to know him.
Now that he thought about it. Had he known him at all? The thought pained Mr. Mundy more than any black and white face behind a picture glass could. Tore his heart in half, and repainted a vivid scene before his eyes as he stared at the wooden swing in the backyard.
He'd played with him on this swing once upon a time, back when they were both much younger. Mr. Mundy could still recall the excited thrill in those eyes as his hands had knotted the rope up tight; and remembered the little body that had thrown himself onto the simple wooden platform once it was deemed strong enough to.
He'd scolded him for that. Told him to be careful. But a lopsided grin with two missing teeth only asked him to push him. And Mr. Mundy had.
The boy squealed as he flew up higher. A time of childhood thrills, of magical moments where, if he'd closed his eyes enough, it was almost as if the rope he held onto disappeared, and the wood under his bottom was gone, and he was flying all by himself.
Mr. Mundy was afraid of him flying all by himself, but eventually the boy asked him to stop pushing, and learned to pump his legs all alone, and swung all alone. He could do nothing but step back and watch.
He watched as that small boy grew into a man who no longer liked swings and no longer liked cattle; who only liked a scope and a barrel, and watching things on the other end disappear into a fine, red mist.
When had he slipped through his fingers? Mr. Mundy wondered.
And he knew, it had been long before the smiles in the pictures had turned into frowns.
A hand gripped his shoulder then, and shattered Mr. Mundy from his musings and he turned towards a short woman with graying hair and a small, sad smile on her features. Once upon a time she too had been a strong, beautiful, young woman with a small lad on her hip begging her for a piece of pie before dinner or with bruises for her to muss over until the boy was spoiled and pleased with it.
She too had memories of this swing, as she leaned against it slightly, small hands grasping the fraying rope. Of a time when the boy had thrown himself from it in some feeble attempt to fly, maybe, only to break his leg and send his mother into hysterics as he had to be rushed to the local hospital.
Mr. Mundy remembered that time well too. And he felt the firm wood beneath him as he turned to allow her room to sit upon his lap as well, even as the rope groaned with the extra weight, his usually careful attitude allowed him this one gesture. He let her hug him, and he hugged her too.
"...Selfish boy to the end we raised, Mum." Mr. Mundy muttered into fine, gray hair. "A father and mother aren't supposed to bury their son."
R&R please~
Edit: Special thanks to Chocovi who took the time to give me some suggestions when I asked. :D
Also to those confused, yes, I was aiming to trick you with the Mr. Mundy's.