Note:
Hello, Troublesome-monkey-dono signing in!
Well, my friend (the one that often nag me to keep writing – bless them) pretty much gave me a shit show about how everything went haywire during the last chapter. Uhm yes, I completely meant for everything to turn into a shit show from the get go, you know? Everything will take a turn for the worse eventually because it is important for me to show that Death literally has no control here. He is a spectator of sorts. Take him like a really inept guardian angel. That's as good as I can really call him.
Anyway, thanks so much for reading and enjoy.
Chapter 6: Year Eight to Nine
Death has seen many things in his Millennium of Existence. He likes to think that Humans, the organic phenomenons that shape the world, couldn't possibly do something anymore that would phase him. He has seen them in warfare at their primitive existence, at their dawn, at their renaissance, at their resurgence, and unfortunately at their canonization to the bitter reality of today's existence. He is no longer phased with warfare and it's modicum of death by, killed in, and -his personal favorite – missing in. Humans are funny that way, he always mused, arguing amongst themselves as though they had all the time in the world to do so. They argue so much, he gathered by the centuries, they find new, fascinating, "humane" (that one he laughs at because it's just ridiculous) ways to argue and kill themselves. But of course, humans – unlike their other fellow organic beings – lack bodily defenses and make up toys in order to reach their tasks. Humans love their toys. At first, it had been sharp sticks. And then there was metal. And then there was gunpowder. And then there was atomic fusion. Humans love their toys. A little too much, he thinks sometimes, especially when they unleash it into the populaces and make his job all the more complicated.
The terrorist attack in New York City leaves him with little time to make real decisions whether he should reap or not. He ends up doing what he has done for many centuries when fatalities are far to numerous for him to reap individually. While he liked to reap them individually because he firmly believed each soul had every right to a justified reaping, time was of the essence and wandering souls was not too be left in their own for far too long. And so he sits, just at the base of the twisted structure, covered in soot, debris, ash, and sadness and calls out gently to those souls who are willing to listen. They're confused. They don't understand what has happened. They didn't expect to die. It's turned into a riot.
But he is gentle, because he is Death. He pushes and prods, coos at them to come in for comfort. Death, after all, is only the beginning. The end of something. The beginning of another. They ask him what is the beginning. He acts bashful and says they have to find out by themselves. Why he doesn't have a clue, he's merely the collector after all. They concede enough for him collect them to start their journey and he is satisfied with the exchange. Of course, he knows where their going – don't suddenly think he's ignorant of his own nature – but he won't ever say. Humans might have some imaginary aneurysm had their beliefs been shattered in some way. Let them believe, let them think, let them be. Humans, after all, are very fickle pitiful things.
It takes him a whole year and a half to do the job correctly, not because it's a large job really (he's reaped much worse) but because people die everyday. He is pulled in different directions, to and fro all the time. There's even stubborn souls he physically has to wrangle to reap. And there are those who eludes him because they refuse to accept their death. And that's all fine, he'll catch them eventually.
But still, it takes him a whole year and half to realize he finally has room to breath. And it takes him even more to realize, he hasn't visited his favorite brood at all. In fact, he hasn't allowed himself to even think of them while he was busy. In doing so, he has a whole year and half unaccounted for. A whole year and a half since the shit show he's left. A whole year and a half left in the hands of another type of monster.
It takes a lot to phase Death, but the sudden realization that it has been that long since he's last seen the Milkovich brood leaves him just a bit breathless.
He doesn't recognize the house the moment he steps in front of it. Something has changed. It looks just a bit cleaner, with shrubbery sheared away and garbage deposited in their correct bins. It looks the same, the same brick outlining peppered with blackening ash and aging decay. The same roll of the train track just racketeering outside. The same numbers, 1955, pressed against the wooden backdrop of the heavy door. The same bullet wounds. The same smell. And yet...
It's too silent. Too dominating. The quiet calm in the inevitable storm.
He doesn't expect to see Mandy first when he filters into the room ominously. She is alone, unsurprisingly so, looking out of the large bay window into the street outside. She's grown, he realizes with a drop of his heavy heart, grown so much that he can't help but keep staring at her. He last sees her when she is just about five years old, looking cherubic and adorable. This Mandy, this seven year old Mandy, looks reshapen. She is taller, stretched a bit that her baby fat seemed to have been burned away to reveal higher cheekbones and a prominent jaw. Previously, her hair had been shoulder length but now it falls close to her petite waist looking dark, straight and fizzed at the ends. She is decked in large white shirt that dwarfed her pale frame but it seemed to accentuate her expressive icy eyes. Mandy always had such glorious colored eyes, much like her brother.
Beside her crossed feet is her stuffed Rabbit, looking mangled and dirty like she had been forced to use it as a cleaning rag. She's fingering the little bow wrapped around it's neck in deep thought before finally sighing as she turned away from the window. Oh look at her, look at how much she's grown. How much she's changed. She's still beautiful, his pale dark-haired princess.
He feels the indelible need to apologize to her immediately creep into his throat. The last time he saw her she had been pleading him to help and he did nothing of the sort. In fact, he ran away. He's not sure how she would react to his presence now. She might even completely shun him due to his betrayal but he owes her enough to at least apologize for turning away. He owes her that much.
So he steps away from the safety of the shadows, clears his throat and calls out to her, "Mandy?"
He's not quite sure what he was expecting. Perhaps deep within himself he expected Mandy to launch at him in rage, a missile of heavy fists, screeches and justified disappointment. Perhaps he expects Mandy to sneer at him from where she stands, her jaw set tight, lips pulled thin, and eyes piercing his figure like dirt beneath her feet. And he wouldn't blame her. Of course not because children are little little leeches. They remember, oddly so, and while they may easily forgive, they tuck it in the back of their minds and let it corrode until it comes out in some misshapen way. But perhaps he expects too much because Mandy does the exact opposite. Hell, she doesn't react to him at all.
"Mandy?" he tries again, calling louder now.
Still Mandy doesn't respond to him, carefully pulling her stuffed Rabbit against her chest in deep thought. She looked almost perturbed in her silence, fidgeting slightly in her perch before turning her head to the side to hear the soft ticking of the clock hanged near the living room archway. She eyes it almost irritated, pursing her lips before turning to the entrance. It's obvious she's expecting someone. Mickey perhaps?
"Mandy?" he calls one more time as he crosses the threshold to her, finally fully revealing his presence to her. Normally, before, she would zero on him completely. However this time, she makes no clue that she would know of his presence. Just like everyone else. Nodding to himself solemnly, he crouches down to his knee to face her. It's sad. He's sad but it wasn't like he wasn't expecting it. He's always expecting it. "You don't see me anymore, do you?" he whispers softly, cursing himself when he actually hears his sadness seep into his voice for a moment. When she doesn't answer he merely nods to himself and sighs. He had hoped, maybe too much, that he would have more time with her. While Mickey had been his favorite (though god knows why, he wonders sometime) but he had a developed relationship with Mandy that was different. That was surprisingly refreshing because she could answer back. Because she sees him. Well, she use to see him.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes just the same, "I'm sorry for failing you. Mandy...I'm...I...I'm sorry I wasn't there when you need me." He takes a moment to pick at his words, watching Mandy's facial expressions. She doesn't betray anything, unflinching and uncaring almost. It was like speaking to a deaf person. It makes him want to curl away for a moment to regroup. He doesn't like feeling the overwhelming sadness that feels because it's ridiculous. He feels lonely and Death isn't lonely. He has no time to be lonely. "I'm sorry," he repeats again mostly to make himself feel better, "Hana is so sorry he couldn't help."
The bang of the door bursting open makes both of the jump. Physically he straightens, fixing his skewed facade easily into practiced professionalism. Beside him, Mandy physically curls into herself, watching the door with wide petrified eyes. She's suddenly much paler, everything hardened and taut like she is readying herself to run. Quietly, they both watch who stumbles in. He's half expecting Terry, that brute to lumber in like the alpha nut he tries to make himself to be.
Except it's not. It's an unfamiliar man. A rough looking man, all beard, red faced, mud eyed and smirking. What the hell? Who the hell is this now? He doesn't say much but steps in nonchalantly only to be followed by Sandy herself. Except it's not Sandy. Not the one that he remembers anyway. The Sandy he remembers is a skinny thing, lithe, gentle faced and rather elegant in her diamond-in-the-rough sort of way. This woman is none of that. Her hair is shredded short, barely catching her shoulders. It's dyed blonde for some reason, something that does little to accentuate her face. And her face, the fuck did she do to her face? He remembers Sandy to be blessed with pretty skin, freckled a bit, pale and with beautiful looking laugh lines. Now, now she painted it with cheap cosmetics – blue eyeshadow, thick mascara and eyeliner and cheap looking red lips – that makes her look older than she is. The way she dresses even makes him more confused. It's a short black dress, barely covering her breasts and ass. It is all finished with sharp looking stilettos that could be used as a weapon. All in all, Sandy's look is not something he ever expects her to put on.
"Sandy?!" he exclaims for his spot, inching closer just to look at her. She doesn't look happy. She looks tired, and beaten, and not very healthy. And dear god, there's that sense of broken spirit in her that he had glanced at that very day and it permeates through like a vibrating aura. It's melancholic. Visibly, she shivers as a cold breeze follows behind her before being tugged hard on the arm by the same rough looking man whose leering gaze is grazing about her.
"You got rubber don'tcha?" the rough man asks as he pulls her along to the direction of the bedroom as though he was more than a bit familiar with the house layout. Sandy merely nods before locking eyes with Mandy and looking hard at the wooden floor boards below. The man snorts in response, "Course yah do."
And just like that the fumbling pair disappears into one of the opened bedrooms and locks the door leaving the shocked pair alone once more. Death keeps himself still, trying his best to piece things together without coming off as assuming. So Sandy plus slutty clothes plus cheap make up plus man asking for a rubber is...what it is. His mind wants to say prostitution, hooker, the oldest living profession in the world but he has half his mind to think otherwise. Because Sandy never seemed to have stooped that low even when it was hard to make ends meet. Maybe this is Sandy dumping that lumbering racist homophobic idiot Terry and settling for another lumbering fool. Maybe she's fed up with that dumbass and went off to go find another boyfriend on the side. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
"It's okay Hana," Mandy surprises him by speaking for the first time. Her voice sounds the same, just rougher and full of worry, "Mama has a lot of men who visit her but they don't really hurt her. Not really." She lifts her stuffed Rabbit to face her for a moment as though she was speaking to it before adding, "They can be kinda rough though..."
Oh well. Break all of his assumptions by shitting on them why don't you?
"That guy, he doesn't touch me either. Not like the others."
And that, that makes his heart drop into his stomach. The words 'touch me' has nothing but bad connotations to it considering Mandy's own age and that of men she mentions. It makes his insides twist for a moment, making the bile flow up his esophagus and decidedly makes him nauseous enough to vomit. "What?" he hisses in anger.
"It's okay Hana, I'm okay," she whispers to herself nudging at her stuffed Rabbit and cuddling it close, "I'm okay."
And he wants to scream. The resignation on a young girls voice, his young girl's voice, makes him want to take a baton and take a wack at every leering man that had half a mind to pull that shit under his nose. He wants to smack her older brother's about because they promised they would keep her safe. He wants to shake Sandy until she's in the depths of another grand mal seizure because it's obvious she's lost her damn mind. And most importantly, he wants to curl around Mandy and keep her in a protective bubble. But he cannot. He knows he cannot. Death knows his limitations.
So drops into the his knees and resists the urge to cup her little face into his palms to coo at her like he does when he is harvesting hurting souls. "I'm sorry," he says finally allowing his voice to break just for a moment, "Oh god, I'm so sorry Mandy. I'm so sorry. Hana's sorry. Hana's...I...you don't...you don't deserve that. You don't deserve any of that. I'm sorry. Oh god, I'm sorry."
Mandy is not okay. Sandy is not okay. Death isn't okay with it either.
Death is on a mission. It's a stupid mission, the back of his mind reminds him. It's stupid and a waste of precious time. But he feels the burn of pure unadulterated anger burn through his spine and there is an unquenchable urge to reap the stupid bastards whoever the hell they are. In worse than that, he has the implicit urge to gather the Milkovich Boys into a line and smack them all in the head back and forth until their noggins clunk together. Perhaps then, they may remember the promises they made each other. To protect each other. To have each others' back. To help each other. Because they're family. Because all they have is each other. Because for some fucking reason, suddenly that shit is forgotten and they left their most vulnerable – the youngest one one, the feminine one, the innocent one – be tainted like so.
That is simply unacceptable.
So he hunts, like a predator through the streets, seeking the Milkovich Brothers wherever the fuck they may be. He half hopes one of them gets shanked enough that it would trigger their call and send a homing beacon for the Hellion to seek and clobber as he ravages on.
He finds them in the worst possible moment.
Hell he's not even sure what the fuck was happening. But it is some sort of fucked up shit. There is Terry, Elitist Racist Homophobic King of Fools, holding two steel batons in his meaty arms like a double sword. A cigarette is hanging off his sneer lips as he surveys the damage that is going on around him. He breathes out smoke through is nostrils like a raging bull, pacing to and fro as he makes grunts and kicks about. "Yeah fuckin' wreck that shit!" he calls.
And there is the rest of the Milkovich Brood, creating some form of uniformed havoc. They are armed with their own steel batons, Milkovich hastily signed against the grey metal, and swinging hard on their surroundings like a battalion. There is Joey, all teenaged up, gangly, acne ridden and buffed out, hoarsely yelling as he cuts through and smacks hard on the store front window willing for it to break. There is Colin, looking just as beefed and equally intimidating as he buffers hard on a cash register as he tries to pry it open. There is Iggy, a scar against his chin, acne on his forehead, at the beginnings of of a mustache, kicking hard against grocery shelves. And then – my god he feels his heart palpitate – there is Mickey (his sweet, punky little snot-nosed Mickey) hitting his baton hard against the glass of the freezer doors storing cooled drinks. He watches aghast as Mickey takes one last heaving hit, watching the glass door crack and fall before deftly reaching in to grab a Gatorade. He uses his incisors to twist it open, pop the cap out of his mouth and takes a shot before letting out a truly chilling smile. Who the fuck was this kid?! He's obviously not Mickey. And that possibly couldn't be Iggy. And what the fuck happened to gentle Colin? And well...Joey. Well Joey, he sort of expected but...still. Still, what the fuck?!
"Fucking wreck this shit!" he hears Terry encourage from the outside, "Damn motherfucking Muslim Terrorists think they can fucking stay in our Country after the shit they did!? Fuckers think they could pull that shit and not get away with it?!"
"Hell no!" Joey hisses as he takes aim to break the glass window pane adjacent to him.
"Goddamn fucking pieces of shit think we want their Islamic bombing ass in America!?"
"FUCK NO!" comes Colin and Iggy's holler as they throw their batons to the floor and start kicking the merchandise to the ground. Death flinches and takes a heavy step back. These boys. These boys aren't his boys.
"Fucking teach them a lesson!" Terry goads as he finally spits his cigarette to the ground, stomps on it and grins, "Aye, fucking bag that shit up!" He gestures to the beer cases shoved near the back, making Iggy and Mickey starting their pickings, loading their spoils into the back of a waiting Pick up Truck parked just outside the convenience store. The two boys give each other two pointed looks before shrugging and picking through whatever they could grab, shoving them into plastic bags and throwing them into the back of the Truck. Chips, Candy, Razors, Condoms, whatever they could grab is thrown about until there is enough to fill about seven plastic bags. The boys are whispering to themselves, looking in between grinning and gritty, a type of expression he couldn't explain. As Terry goads them on, it was like they turn into a frenzy of busy bees. Every bark makes them squirm, every yell makes them work harder.
And he could see it. The desperation on their faces. It is a competition against each other. And it confuses the hell out of him. But it's so clearly in their face. Look, see, I'm doing it. Look, see, I did what you said. Look, see, Dad, look. Look, look, look. Look at me. Look at what I'm doing. All for you. All for you. Look. Look. Look. Don't look at him. Look at me, Dad, be fucking proud of me. It makes him want to weep. Because these boys, something happened to these boys that changed them. Because these boys, they're desperate for attention. So thirsty for approval by the Alpha Male piece of shit that they act without hesitance. What the fuck has Terry done to mind control his children?!
And suddenly they stop. The chaos stops. Micky and Iggy straighten from where they are, looking just beyond their father's turned back. Joey and Colin regroup, like two buffing statues near the broken window panes, batons to their side. They all have an unreadable expression on their face.
"Wh-what the hell...what the hell is this?!" a shaky feminine voice calls from a few feet away. So Death turns, one eye on Terry as the grin on his face turns fucking manic with delight. There, standing near the edge of the road is a young couple. The lady, garbed with a hijab on her head, a leather black purse on her shoulder and a gun aloft on her hand, pointed straight at Terry's back. She's little. My god she's little. But the determination and anger on her face is palpable, making her pale face glow red. She scrunches her nose for a moment before setting her jaw firm and growls out, "What the hell are you doing Milkovich?!"
"Linda," the man beside her warns. He clearly is a Person of Color, black hair wavy, a five o'clock shadow, wide terrified eyes, and a stocky shaking frame. Ah, this must be the man Terry is spewing Hell on Earth about. The Muslim Man with his properly pretty White Muslim wife. Interesting. "Don't." He warily eyes the gun in her hands before sweeping to the Milkovich brood in question.
"Should listen to your terrorist husband, traitor," Terry sneers easily. He turns fully and grins at her, with a spiteful gleam. "Not a good idea...Linda."
"You wrecked my store!" she hisses back looking even more contrite that her husband physically reaches to take hold of her shoulder as if to draw her back.
"Linda!"
"I'm fucking calling the police!" she growls, smacking her husband's hand away from her before smacking him with her free hand again. "Kash! Fucking call! Call!"
With that Terry laughs and actually steps forward to take a sharp blow at her. It misses her by a few feet but it is enough to make the couple jump back. Her husband's quick reflexes are enough to make him pull his wife by the shoulders a few good feet away to avoid being hit. It was a reflex, the way the altercation happens, with Linda suddenly pale faced and shivering when her hand pulls through the barrel of the gun in her hand, forcing the poorly aimed bullet to ricochet a few inches to Terry's feet. The shot is enough to garner a few minutes of silence, the couple panting and shaken. All the while, Terry stands looking more amused before letting out a chuckle.
"Fuckin' traitor can't even pull a shot," he laughs, "Goddamn pathetic!" And with that he walks away, as though he was washing his hands of the place now that he seemed to have gained some sort of upper hand of some sort as he watches the couple cower. "Just try to call the damn police! Fuckers' got a mole on the inside! I'll trace your fucking ass to Baghdad and back if you pull your shit!" he calls as he heaves into the truck and starts the ignition. He does a lazy wave and his children all scramble to the back, lumbering over their stolen goods. Their pointed expressions do not betray their emotions, all except for the two youngest who fidget where they sit. Iggy is biting his lip silently, his hand clenching the baton against himself before wearily eyeing the couple and then forcing himself to look away. He looked...almost ashamed.
And there it is. There is the boys he remembers. Like a veil, it was like the barrier is allowed to break for a slight moment. Joey's jaw sets hard and Colin turns away to observe the mess they had made before fidgeting and shaking his head, but both say nothing. He understands. They dare not say a thing. Not when their Father is on his own rampaging tirade to scare the poor victimized couple. They're smart enough not to say a thing lest they risk their own heads. No one was pulling a Benedict Arnold now. No way.
It is Mickey's face that looks the most apologetic. He's actively shuffling in his spot, biting his lip and looking around wild-eyed. It's like he's half expecting the police to actually show, for them to come in guns raised, a barrage of bullets all fantastic like in the action movies. He looks down at the stolen goods guiltily and pushes one of the bags away with his feet. It feels dirty. Stealing like this. Terrorizing like this. It feels dirty. And he knows it's wrong. It's all written on his face. But...well...
As the Pick Up lurches forward, it is then when Micky whirls to stare right at the cowering couple. The man has an arm looped around the woman's waist looking like he could cry at the moment. The lady in question, shaking and quaking before shoving him off and straightening herself. She locks eyes with Mickey for that moment, brown eyes locking into blue. She is visibly shaken but angry, accusation searing hard in her glare. Fuck you. Fuck you for doing this to us. For hating us over nothing. Fuck you for the hate we don't deserve.
And Mickey flinches. He flinches hard at her glare before standing up slightly to match her gaze. "I'm sorry," he mouths silently. "I'm fucking sorry."
Death isn't sure if he is proud. He should. But, as the Pick Up rolls away into the road to leave the couple with their devastation, he doesn't feel proud. As he watches Linda take a sharp breath, fists clenching hard and lower lip shaking, he doesn't feel anything close to proud. He watches her take in her business, her life, her source of income left in shambles and tries to even her breathes. He watches as the husband listlessly hovers close, mouth opening and closing as he reaches for what to say. He doesn't feel proud. It's not enough, what Mickey did. Apologies are not enough. He feels nauseous. He feels disappointment. He feels...he's not proud. As Linda finally folds, angry tears gathering around her eyes, he feels nothing but pity. Kash shuffles beside her, holds her close with one arm and presses his cheek against the side of her head.
"Let's clean up," he whispers hoarsely before clearing his throat.
"...Yeah."
Death shakes his head and turns away. Humans. Humans are truly pitiful creatures.
Death doesn't bother going back to check on his brood after that. He lingers, a little bit to watch the couple rummage through their store. He watches as Linda screeches, throws a broken piece of shelving to the ground in the frustration as she raves. He watches Kash – his name is Kash – steady her before quietly try cleaning up. They're tense and silent and emotional. They don't deserve this. No one deserve this. This blinding hate for something out of their control. All because of their beliefs? Of their looks? He snorts. Humans are stupid. Terry is stupid. Terry is not the only asshole in South Side.
He sees it. He sees the murmuring crowd that gathers to look at the devastation. He senses their thoughts, their feelings. Look at that shit. Fucking sucks. But they do not help, because no one wants to be seen helping the ones the Milkoviches labeled "Terrorists." People aren't playing with the Devil here. And that is pitiful. It is alarming. It is crowd mentality at it's finest.
As he watches, he feels that certain bubbling anger in his gut that burns harder than his revelation earlier that day. It is surprising, how hot his irritation is for his brood. Because it's his brood. It's his pseudo family to watch. And they dare do this. He doesn't know how they could have it within themselves to actually do it. He doesn't know how they could suddenly turn so heartless, so hateful, so vengeful. All of them? All of them?! How?! How does that shit happen?!
He doesn't get answers. Of course not. But he is rightfully peeved and not in the mood to simmer about it. His brood. The brood he's watched because he was so certain they were different. That they had something in themselves that made them so worth watching. So worth protecting. So worth sparing. What fucking fresh hell they are now. It bites. It bites at his pride, his integrity, and his trust. He doesn't want to call them his brood. Not anymore.
"Penny for your thoughts?" a smooth voice eases into his left ear. He stiffens for a moment before he feels Fate's hand rub hard at the clench of his shoulder muscles. He turns slightly to see her umber fingers work hard to press against his muscle before sighing into her touch. He lost his concentration. He didn't even hear her come up to him. He's getting soft.
"Fate," he greets listlessly, pouting at his sudden ineptitude. He's gone soft. Too cared too much. Well fuck him and his inability to not give a damn.
"You're in to deeeeeep," she singsongs into his ear as she giggles. Fucking bitch gotta rub in his face. Of fucking course.
Note: Long notes ahead. Forgive me.
1) This chapter was a bit emotionally draining for me. I felt like it was time to uphold the amoral fragility of the Milkovich Clan. My goal, in this chapter is basically to destroy the family unit. I spent a long while to develop it, especially the bonds between siblings for a good reason because it has hit me that Mickey is a loyal little thing, especially to people he considered family. However, it's rather obvious his opinion of family is misconstrued, justifiably so. Therefore it made sense to destroy the unit as much as I did simply because it would explain why Mickey had little regard to normal family values, but is loyal to family members. Because he remembers a time when they had his back. He remembers feeling loved. And man, does he latch into those who would spare him a little bit of love because he knows how easily that can be destroyed. How easily he can be thrown aside. The way people react most times, especially to relationships, are often rooted to the core of family dynamics after all. I hope that explanation helps.
2) Yes, I felt iffy about including Muslim Discrimination but in the end I felt like it is a reality everywhere that is more than plausible in even fiction. It's there. It happened. It will continue to happen because unfortunately there are people who are very much like Terry Milkovich. I'm writing from reality here. As a kid who lived just about 30 minutes away from New York when 9/11 happened, everything literally changed from the get go. After that day, people were afraid to go out anywhere. And even my own friends who practiced Islam, who looked Muslim, who were not "American" looking enough (myself included)– they were treated differently and not very well. The Truth is People were and continue to be affected by the action of others simply because people are ignorant enough and needed to point the blame at someone. Hate festers because of ignorance, false sense of superiority, misguided anger and intolerance of the truth and change. Now this was a decade ago, yet the parallels of our reality has not changed significantly. Death will continue to shake his head and weep.
P.S. I love Linda and remember her fondly. Her husband...not so much. He creeped me the hell out.
3) Uhm, read and enjoy? I dunno. Was it I too forward in this chapter? I always feel like I'm pushing way too much. Please tell me if I do, I'd like feedback because I literally touched upon real issues and it's giving me some anxiety for some reason.