Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 70429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“You really think I’m that bad, Legend?”
“Yeah, I do. I wanted to get up from my seat in the restaurant and beat the fuck outta you. You said every discourteous thing you could about this situation, but then I realized, that’s what you wanted me to do. To kick your ass. You can fight, you can definitely throw some ’bows, but I doubt you would’ve fought hard against me. The pain would have brought you pleasure. Another distraction. Anything so you could stop thinkin’ about that white feather… the death of Aunt Angel… and all the pain this place brings up for you. That’s why when you visit home, you always leave quick. You hate home and yet, you keep havin’ to come back. It’s callin’ you, but you don’t want to hear it. You don’t want to see it. You don’t even want to speak of it.
“I refuse to hurt you. I’ll kill ninety-nine percent of the people walkin’ this planet if I have to, but I won’t kill my woman, my babies, my family or my true friends—and God knows that. You’re in a lot of pain, man. No matter how many big words you use, I can hear what you’re really trying to say. Your silence is loud. It always has been. I heard you when you didn’t say a word, man. Axel ain’t deaf. He hears your heart. I can see soundwaves, so go ahead. My third eye is open. Speak, brother. It’s yo’ turn on stage…The show will go on, with or without you. Grab the mic. We hear you and see you. The truth speaks for itself.”
And then, he drove away…
Chapter Three
Caspian regarded his cousin Noah and a host of other odd faces, twisted and wet with grief. Sets of glossy, bloodshot eyes landed upon him as the crowd surrounded him. Arms extended, gathering him up. Warm embraces he didn’t want.
He fought through it. Smiled through it. Gritted his teeth through it. He didn’t want to be touched. Talked to. Spoken about. He understood what was expected of him. He was to behave somber. No loud laughter, but produce enough smiles to make others feel better. Stronger. He imagined they’d want him to share funny and sweet stories about Aunt Angel, and be generous enough to offer some of her possessions, since she’d left him, Uncle Bobby, and Noah everything.
Soft rock music played in the small house, the scent of lemon Pledge filling the rooms. Several old women dressed in long dresses and wide-brimmed hats sat in the living room, rocking and smiling, chatting quietly while holding on to mason jars filled with lemon slices, ice cubes and tea. They’d been Aunt Angel’s card playin’ buddies.
The group of women waved to him, balled-up tissues in their wrinkled, age spot covered hands. Their wrists were adorned with plastic bracelets that resembled pearls and jade. Crow’s feet circled eyes that had seen too much. They were a bit older than Aunt Angel. She enjoyed the company of her elders.
He’d seen too much, too. He went through the motions—played his part. Offered stilted smiles and rehearsed lines to the people moving around him like machinery, sliding against rough, moving parts. He hoped they appeared genuine, while he pretended to want to be a part of their lives, understanding and caring, when all he wished to do was exercise his right to remain silent.
Gripping his bags, he managed to escape up the stairs with Noah leading the way.
Relief washed over him like a gentle rainfall. The steps creaked and sighed, groaning like old men on their way to the basilica, falling softly against faded memories washed away with time.
“Glad you could make it back, Caspian. You can stay in the guest room here.”
“Okay.”
He looked behind him towards the steps, noticing the music had changed to some sort of old-fashioned jazzy tune. He swiveled around to face his cousin and tried to find the right words to say to him. He was a journalist, after all. All he did was find the right words, it was his damn job, but right that moment, his thoughts were mere empty clouds and his mind a miasma.
Noah was about five foot nine, muscular, with dark brown wavy hair and deep tan skin. Aunt Angel said it was because his biological father, who she’d had a fling with and married on a whim, was a Navaho Indian. No one in the family had ever seen or met the man. They were divorced after less than four months of marriage. He’d abandoned her. He and Noah had that in common. No father. Aunt Angel said he was a nomad. A traveler. A ladies man. His name was Alo.
“This is just fine, Noah.” He tapped the man’s shoulder and placed his luggage on the floor.
The room was filled with flourishing plants, woven dream catchers, and tapestries. Aunt Angel loved plants.