Well this one is great.


He felt awkward. Out of place. Every little thing made him uncomfortable. His suit itched. The chair, when he sat which was rarely, was stiff. The lights hurt his eyes. The smell of flowers was overwhelming and made him nauseous. People came and patted his shoulder or hugged him and he had to fight tonot flinch. Some people from school came and whispered condolences and studied him like a specimen. His current legal guardian, a social worker who was just watching over him, "for a little while," stood by the door as if he thought Caesar would run. Caesar was far too tired to run.

What was the worst was the bodies. It hurt to look at them, but he'd been studying them for hours. Hours maybe. Maybe just minutes. It was just a visitation, not even the real funeral, but it was already unbearable. People hugged him. Said nice things about Victoria. Made up nice things to say about Steve, though most of them didn't know him. He rarely left home. Had rarely left home... He'd had a rough couple of last years. Caesar winced thinking about having just experienced his father's last years. People he didn't know peered at him, and told him it was okay to cry, but it wasn't, and he wasn't going to.

It seemed like they'd never leave. It seemed like they were using his parent's death as an excuse to have a social event. He overheard some women criticizing the funeral parlor's decor. Men in the corner were speculating that Steve had killed his wife and then himself. Caesar knew that the forensics team had discovered Steve had died first, and in New York there was a confession. He didn't say that though, instead holding on to the side of his mother's coffin to keep from toppling over. Maybe he was sad, maybe he wasn't, but the whole idea just confused him. Someone had hated his parents enough to kill them, one at a time. They, he, didn't do it for money, though he'd dipped a little into their bank account, he'd done it out of hatred. What confused and troubled him the most, is that he understood the motive, and wasn't angry, or, yet, sad, just, confused.

Caesar would be going to the trial. HE wasn't a witness, wouldn't be questioned. He would just sit and bite his lip while they questioned his older brother. When he could stand on his own two feet without falling the last people were trickling out of the parlor. The social worker, James, came over as Caesar stared down at his mother. She looked content, wearing her favorite dress, a purple sleeveless thing though they'd taken great care to cover her arms with a thick white jacket. For some reason, that stood out to him.

"You ready to go Caesar?" His mind still tugged at the issue of the jacket. That wasn't her jacket, she would have never worn it.

"May I have a minute alone with my parents?" He asked, putting pain into his voice, like he wanted to be alone before he broke down and cried even though he never would.

"Of course. Meet me in the car. I'll tell the owner to let you alone, but don't take too long, it's late."

"Yes sir." He waited until he was absolutely sure he was alone and then pulled up the sleeves on his mom's jacket. Long and short scars decorated her arms, forming a strange pattern. She also had her SPQR tattoo, but that wasn't anything new. The patterns burned into his mind. He rolled her sleeves back down and moved on to the arms of his late father. The patterns were different and he could tell now, they'd been random. He understood, somehow. It was as he was was doodling with a pencil. He was never specific, art just happened.

During the car ride back he copied the patterns down in his sketch book. From his best guess, the carvings had been done after his parents were already dead. Strange thoughts filled his head, like how the patterns really were beautiful, done in charcoal rather than blood and how he wondered what his brother had felt as he cut. If his art had filled him with anything. If there was meaning behind any of it. I he did it on his own skin. He kept drawing, all from memory, since the patterns were unforgettable. He realized sleepily that he admired the completionist in the murderer. He hadn't stopped until it had run its course.

They pulled up to the apartment he was staying at. It was much smaller and more crowded than what he was used to, but he like it. James, and his wife Gracelyn, and their fiver year old son Bailey were all nice. This wasn't their first time taking care of a case for awhile, so he had his own room for privacy. He shared a bathroom with the five year old though. He went to his room, grabbed something that had at one time been his mother's, and hid out in the bathroom, meticulously copying over the the carvings on his arms. It hurt like fire, and nothing was clearer for doing it, but handling the golden knife made him feel a little better There was a knock on the door.

"You okay Caesar?" He needed to ask to be called Alexander, or Alex. The name Caesar was getting on his nerves. He put power into his arms and his skin knit itself together. The scars disappeared and he looked none the worse for wear. He flushed the toilet, washed blood out of the sink, and walked out of the bathroom, the knife still in his hand. It didn't matter, no one would see it. No one ever saw what Caesar wanted to hide.

"I'm fine. And I go by Alexander."