late may

In late May, things picked up rapidly and a bit weirdly for your cousin. His sound began to seep into the sleepy and weepy landscape. His owned the land of course. He inherited it from some aunt who didn’t give a fuck for her family. She gave him her savings, which were modest by everyone’s standards, but enough to instill envy nonetheless. He took the land and the money and begun to change his fortune. His fortune was small but still enough to instill envy. He flooded the lower lands and burned the upper lands. His scents began to seep into the surrounding countryside until he owned all the plots that surrounded him. He took to walking the lands that weren’t his and his trespassing never really became an issue. Well, it did become an issue once. But we’ve been told not to speak of it.

It’s an issue when you can’t remember the faces of those you left behind for greater fortune. At least, that is what your cousin thought. I met him on one of those walks. He was trespassing and I don’t like it when my authority is questioned. I first saw him near my rose bush and I fired two shot in his direction. I certainly was careful not to hit the Normand stonework. Both shots found a home in right thigh and right ankle. He crumpled onto the roses and they unfortunately were crumpled too. His blood began to seep into the dirt and he flooded the garden path. Well, things began to pick up a bit rapidly and weirdly for the two of us.

I took him to the gardener’s shed and made quick work on his leg right there. We could operate but we decided to take the damn leg off with the trimming shears. Don’t think of me as a savage. It was his idea. It was his idea to walk with a cane instead of prosthesis. It was his idea to let his thoughts seep into my own estate and into my own household. He met her when we heaved the bloody right leg into the stream. She was picking the dead roses out of the plot. Red to red. I left at that moment. I had had enough and things began to pick up rapidly and oddly between them.

That night in early June, he took her to the church. Rather, he walked her to the church. It was some old Normand site that had long been left abandoned. But the stone ruins were covered in vine and dirt. Green to green. He wished he could’ve done better than those stone ruins but Becca didn’t mind. Becca, that was her name. That was the name of the trespasser that picked the dead roses from my flowerbeds. He led her up the path while she still held the dead roses in her hands. It is an issue when you can’t remember the faces of those you left behind and he had left quite a few behind, in the lurch, in the church, at the altar. He had been here before, with some other creature, with some other name. If he had the other name or she did, he didn’t know. He remembered the altar and what he was supposed to do. He remembered the promises and he let his soul seep into the old church grounds. Becca watched and silently approved of his piety and his reverence. She let her soul slip with him.

TBC