The Lonely Perpetrator and the Harbinger of Murder
A/N: This story is not entirely mine, rather it is a premise of a psycho test I’ve heard of a few years back. The twist though is of my working.
By: RDV
On the dreary day of her mother’s funeral, Clara fell in love. And as she shed fake tears on her open casket, so shook the rainbow bouquet of mourning loyally propped up in stands and baskets all around her. In synchrony gushed forth the wail of the bereft, of relatives both unknown and known, who were draped in black from head to foot, from one hand to the other. Even Clara’s weeping sank underneath it as her mind fought hard to maintain outward lament. Then finally, all at once, the chaos subsided, as though the hand of the conductor lowered to command silence. In its midst came swooping a form, seemingly from nowhere; it was a stranger from an unmarked history coming to witness the hysterics of Clara’s family in their lowest level. His recipient was that of continued quiet, tinged with a surprise none wholly concealed. And as he strode forward the body of the departed, none could mistake his presence as something other than a result of voluntary sympathy. Clara stared at him, his profile rising like a statue beside Clara who had began clutching more and more firmly the ledge of her mother’s encasement. She saw nothing less than a bundle of mysteries in him, magnetic and forceful, as a partial shadow cast over the man’s face, thus dramatizing the mystery he induced. She dared not look too long for fear of revelation; she knew not what the man was there for, nor cared. Instead, thoughts intruded her mind such that she would fail to come to herself in the following days.
Then he spoke in a voice that was clear and isolated from anything else heard. The words he offered were condolences, mere condolences of someone who was detached yet concerned; there was nothing to them. And though she had turned her gaze away, she knew that he was looking at her with kind eyes. She just nodded in response, face the other way. Then, as if a wordless understanding swept between them, he turned to leave. His steps thumped against the carpeted floor and he was gone in moments. Clara felt the place where he stood become saddened by a kind of chill, as well as the shiver that rose out of the shadow of his departure.
At length her mind and body began accepting the fact that bared itself to her in her solitude and sleep. She, unappealing and spinsterhood-bound, let her niggardly love be captured, in consummation, in finality. As time ceased to become brief and the period of thinking about the stranger stretched to months, she let herself go. Thus in her hands, her sister, her closest blood relation died.
Once again, her home received the familiar service. The wake was less grand, and the flowers diminished in number. Outside, slashes of rain tore through the atmosphere. The stranger, the only enduring feature of last time’s funeral, returned within hope. Clara, now more restrained in her mourning, welcomed him. As she looked him in the eye she became aware of the searing recognition of her folly. No longer was she trapped in the wily net of his charm and hauteur; for she knew, even as his face, for all its faultless contours and elements, brought back the memory of her dead father. She cupped her hands to her mouth, not knowing whether to run or to remain. This must be, and indeed he was, the long-lost son her father grieved for in his tumultuous life. This was the half-brother she never dreamed of meeting.
It took two lives to realize it, three lives pushing daisies to regret it.
By: RDV
On the dreary day of her mother’s funeral, Clara fell in love. And as she shed fake tears on her open casket, so shook the rainbow bouquet of mourning loyally propped up in stands and baskets all around her. In synchrony gushed forth the wail of the bereft, of relatives both unknown and known, who were draped in black from head to foot, from one hand to the other. Even Clara’s weeping sank underneath it as her mind fought hard to maintain outward lament. Then finally, all at once, the chaos subsided, as though the hand of the conductor lowered to command silence. In its midst came swooping a form, seemingly from nowhere; it was a stranger from an unmarked history coming to witness the hysterics of Clara’s family in their lowest level. His recipient was that of continued quiet, tinged with a surprise none wholly concealed. And as he strode forward the body of the departed, none could mistake his presence as something other than a result of voluntary sympathy. Clara stared at him, his profile rising like a statue beside Clara who had began clutching more and more firmly the ledge of her mother’s encasement. She saw nothing less than a bundle of mysteries in him, magnetic and forceful, as a partial shadow cast over the man’s face, thus dramatizing the mystery he induced. She dared not look too long for fear of revelation; she knew not what the man was there for, nor cared. Instead, thoughts intruded her mind such that she would fail to come to herself in the following days.
Then he spoke in a voice that was clear and isolated from anything else heard. The words he offered were condolences, mere condolences of someone who was detached yet concerned; there was nothing to them. And though she had turned her gaze away, she knew that he was looking at her with kind eyes. She just nodded in response, face the other way. Then, as if a wordless understanding swept between them, he turned to leave. His steps thumped against the carpeted floor and he was gone in moments. Clara felt the place where he stood become saddened by a kind of chill, as well as the shiver that rose out of the shadow of his departure.
At length her mind and body began accepting the fact that bared itself to her in her solitude and sleep. She, unappealing and spinsterhood-bound, let her niggardly love be captured, in consummation, in finality. As time ceased to become brief and the period of thinking about the stranger stretched to months, she let herself go. Thus in her hands, her sister, her closest blood relation died.
Once again, her home received the familiar service. The wake was less grand, and the flowers diminished in number. Outside, slashes of rain tore through the atmosphere. The stranger, the only enduring feature of last time’s funeral, returned within hope. Clara, now more restrained in her mourning, welcomed him. As she looked him in the eye she became aware of the searing recognition of her folly. No longer was she trapped in the wily net of his charm and hauteur; for she knew, even as his face, for all its faultless contours and elements, brought back the memory of her dead father. She cupped her hands to her mouth, not knowing whether to run or to remain. This must be, and indeed he was, the long-lost son her father grieved for in his tumultuous life. This was the half-brother she never dreamed of meeting.
It took two lives to realize it, three lives pushing daisies to regret it.
posted by Ria D. at
1:07 AM
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