Forever Was A Lie

Aria's POV: It poured out as if the sky was weeping for some greater loss than a person. A slow, constant rain that was light as a caress yet sharp enough to bring you up short and know that you are alive. I didn’t wear what society thought of as “girly” things. Let the weather do what it will. All around me was covered in black, quiet in thought, but I wanted to feel it. Let the cold have its way. See it penetrate to the bone. He went onto the ground without a ceremony. No fanfare, no dramatic music, no past glories. Instead, the sound of the hydraulic platform, which is on a silent run, and the muffled sounds of footsteps on wet grass, which come from that which those expensive shoes are made. That which taught me to ride a bike came to dinner with Latin quotes, smiled as if life had not a mark on it, and then left the stage as if he had just left the room. “Aria,” said Aunt Elise at my side, “you should say something . No, I shouldn’t. What is there to say that would make a difference? Did he not deserve better? That the world is hungry, which devours men of honor and poops out their bones? That truth, which is on the side of men like him, still comes up short? “I’m fine” I said in a sharp tone. That tone cut through the ceremony like a blade out of place for the mostly silent ceremony. The priest went on as if nothing. Out of practice, he put forth empty hopes and far-off promises. My father didn’t really believe in heaven. He believed in justice, in men, in what is good, and in what in the end is foolish. In the end, all he left with was a ruined name and a hospital bed by my side. The wind picked up. All you have to do is put on a sad face for an hour. As for real grief, that comes later. In the silence. While I was staring at a ledger full of red numbers and a voicemail that says, "All calls to this number are now declined." Also, he did not even appear in the picture. What would he? It had never been in his plans to even show his face. When had he turned down a life? I clutched the single white rose I had. Not red. Not yellow. White for truth: That which once meant something before he twisted it to fit his own purposes. At one point, my father looked up to that man. That photo was a ghost from the past, buried in some old file until it came back to haunt me. My father and the man who took his life, but younger, with the same cold eyes, at a company retreat that I did not know we had. We were once associates, but it is a fever dream now. Not a word, also not a sorry, not even an “Are you ok? Just this thick, choking silence. Power-shaped so you could die on it. “Sorry for your loss, Aria,” someone mumbled. I didn’t recognize the voice. Also, I didn’t care. Probably just a face I will forget by morning. At the end of the service, I left. I let Elise chat with the priest; she went on and on about her pain. The dead could have her for dessert, for all I gave a damn. I left before they could throw that last load of dirt on the casket. No way was I going to let that sound remain permanent in my head. Home (if you can call it that)? It stank. Of old coffee that had been poured over cardboard. The kind of smell no amount of candles can banish. Half the place was just boxes that had been stacked like a sad game of Jenga. The other half was filled with memories. I took off my shoes. Rain ran off my cheeks. I stood there spaced out, probably looking like a deflated parade balloon. Then I melted into Dad’s old armchair. Bank statements, company memos, also that printed out email chains which had been tampered with using a black marker, but not very successfully. When people attempt to cover up issues but do a poor job of it, it’s almost a gift. In some cases, they just throw the mess out there for all to see, which is exactly what happened at the point of failure and which exact person went off the rails. He used to be one of us. Can you believe that? His company devoured the cybersecurity world like Pac-Man. Meanwhile, I had my dad, Robert Langford, working out the digital issues for his grand world takeover scheme. I trusted him also. We thought we were in the process of creating the next great digital empire together. And then came the fall. Rumors of leaks had them [that is] dooming, deals which had been made were called off at the last second, accounts which had been open were shut like tombs, and the press had run dry with no real facts to go on. Just right -- a few choice headlines. I found my dad’s name synonymous in every boardroom with that of a “screw-up.” I am there going over those pages again and again, trying to see past what I know. To find some order in the chaos. My father used to say that business is like war with better suits. I went ahead and hid the old photo; it was all crumpled, something that drifts into the back of a drawer, and one wrestles with the thought of burning it. My dad and he, suspiciously gleeful, were almost toasting their success in running the world. "Bastard," I muttered. Not at Dad. Never at him. That one had destroyed us, literally parrying and stabbing at us, and then stone-faced watched us bleed out on the floor. At that precise moment, the phone beside me was buzzing. Few people had my number anymore. The screen said UNKNOWN NUMBER. "Yeah, right, like I'm picking that up." Instead, I snatched a thick black marker and went straight to the back of that photo and wrote with so much pressure that the marker's tip almost gave way. REVENGE.