Chapter 4-
Before...-
"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sylar stood in the room, looking around. A painting of a cabin by the woods, in oil on a light canvas, the textures popping out at the eyes. The title of the painting, etched in golden letters, a regal font- "A place beyond time." He looked around the walls, surveying them with his eyes, to see the rest of the paintings, all done by the same artist it seemed.
"What...what are the paintings for?" He asked the nebbish man before him, black name tag with white letters in a bold font reading "Mr. Davidson" on top of a green tweed jacket. Studying the man's features- glasses over boring brown eyes, heavy age lines, slightly chipped front left tooth that was revealed when he spoke, Sylar estimated the man around 48. Mr. Davidson answered in a simple and reassuring tone developed over many years.
"Those are for the loved ones of those who have...passed on. To remind us all that...our mortal lives are but a dot in a great cosmic line of existence. Sorry, that was hackneyed, right?"
"It provided...a little comfort." Sylar answered begrudgingly, accepting the words of seeming wisdom. There was little comfort in these days, and he would try to hang onto any that passed by, a floating branch of wood in the riptide of the emotional river overwhelming him. He walked along the halls of the place, a pale off-white paint that had slightly cracked over the years. His mother wanted them to handle it, as they had handled the rest of the family. Sylar remembered when he was little, and Great Aunt Eva passed away- one of his few times here. Seeing that corpse..no longer the relative he hardly knew, but simply a slowly decaying, yet prim and properly restored facsimile of her...he avoided funerals after that.Unless he had no choice. This was one of those days...one of those long, exhausting days.
They stopped in the hall, taking a right into a small office. Mr. Davidson sat down with a muted sigh in a chair on wheels, leather black. There was an anachronistic computer from around 1998 sitting on the desk, a behemoth of gray humming along as Windows 98's screensaver rolled along the monitor. Sylar took his seat in a brown hard backed chair with a velvet seat cushion and no arm rests, instead letting his arms rest on his knees as he bent forward to study Davidson. He would study people, study paintings, see how things worked...it helped him get through the days. Davidson gave him a reassuring look that failed to do so, and began in a caring tone.
"So, how are you related to the deceased, Virginia?"
"I'm her son, Ga..briel." He was not used to calling himself that, and the words hardly rolled off his tongue, instead stopping on the taste buds long enough for the bitterness of it all to sink in before exhaling out of his lips.
"Were you...close?"
"Quite close. Not physically- I travel a lot, but I would always send her a little something." Each one of those snow globes...a little token of his achievements.
"To show that you care. Yes. Well, let's begin. I've looked over your mother's will, and it seems she has left it all to you. Were you aware of this?"
"Yes, ever since...father, that was the plan. We didn't discuss it much." Gabriel did not like to mention Father, nor did Mother. Everyone is entitled to a few family secrets.
"Yes, the death was not...expected. Terrible tragedy, accident." Davidson said, shaking his head with a frown that implied empathy, years of working here gave him that skill, even though Sylar read right through it.
"Accidental deaths...preventable ones. They hurt the most." Gabriel had read this somewhere, he'd been reading a lot of books about grief. The process, the steps. Knowing why he was in pain did not stop it.
"Mr. Gray, are you financially...equipped to handle the funeral arraignments set out here? This- this is just a standard question-" Davidson adjusted his glasses, not wanting to provoke any argument with the bereaving son.
"Yes. My father and I- the business, Gray and Son, was sold. The money is there. The money to...send her away in a manner befitting her life."
"Simple, elegant and beautiful. The attention to detail in the arraignments- this must be a typo however. The wake, you seem to be the only one that will-"
"She kept few friends. Her family was her life. She was never much for crowds anyway. And she'd hate to think we all made a big fuss over her."
"I'm sure her friends will mourn...in their own way."
"Yes." Gabriel lied.
"Well then, I guess we should head on out and lay her to rest."
This would be another day of sorrow and pain, he knew, yet Gabriel Gray continued on. What else was there to do?
"Sorrow is a fruit. God does not make it grow on limbs too weak to bear it."
Victor Hugo