The odd, buzzing reverberation made his head pulse. It was similar to an injury that kept pace with the heart; but it beat against the skull like a living creature, trying to break free. And, in the midst of that cacophony of madness, two, cylindrical silver posts stood as sentries. They were utterly alien in the middle of the polished marble of the mausoleum.
Agron stood quietly, a bouquet of fake flowers dangling in his hand. His brow was furrowed in constipated concentration while he tried to understand why the two, silver posts were sitting in the middle of the, seemingly, empty room.
“Funeral services are about to begin.”
The voice startled him. Badly. He turned to get a good look at the mortuary worker and tried not to gawk like a fucking tourist. The man was pale and gaunt, though nothing like the older man who ran the place. This one looked like he had been spending too much time around the embalming fluids, and it had turned flesh into a sallow sack that barely clung to the skeleton beneath. His suit was shiny and cheap, with a pencil-thin tie that looked more than a little frayed.
Agron nodded and swallowed. The measured, hollow steps echoed throughout the expansive hallway and Agron tried not to imagine what a zombie apocalypse would look like if the rotting corpses actually managed to push open the decorated marble slabs to seek out a fresh meal. Not helping, he told himself. But then, mourning affected everyone differently. He’d not shed a single tear for his brother, though his heart felt like a lead balloon in his chest. It ached with an empty gnawing and reminded him that the only person who had ever truly understood him, was gone.
He hadn’t even realized how far off the beaten path he’d gone, until they reached the massive double doors that led to the room where they were housing Duro’s casket. He’d been lost in thought, contemplating their last moments together and the things that could never be said. There were promises that could never be kept, now. And, while the casket was probably more elaborate than what Duro might have picked out, Agron couldn’t help but feel like he should have done more.
It was the story of his life, it felt like.
There was a small collection of flowers on a shelf, and he added the bouquet to the riot of colors. He spied a tag from Duro’s employer, expressing their sympathy. Distantly, and perhaps with no small amount of petty rage, Agron wondered if they’d already replaced his brother with another, warm body. He shoved the anger back down, though it was the first warm feeling he’d encountered since before Duro had gotten sick. Swallowing the acrid taste that welled up in the back of his throat, he turned away from the flowers to look at those who had come to say their last goodbyes to his beloved brother.
The room was considerably more populated than he’d expected. Or, perhaps that was his own insecurities settling upon his shoulders. Of the two, Duro had always been the social butterfly. He’d been the one with a million friends; invited to every party. Agron had been reserved and withdrawn. He expected to have a little footnote on the back page of the obits and utterly no fanfare when he finally died. The world would forget Agron Izaaks existed, but it would celebrate Duro’s life. It was, he supposed, as it should be. Duro’s life was a celebration. He’d lived everything to the fullest, right until the end. Agron sat on one of the awkwardly uncomfortable folding chairs and stared at the polished faux wood of the casket.
It gleamed in the low light. The makeup job made it look as though Duro was just sleeping. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, as though afraid to awaken the man. Irrationally, Agron toyed with the notion of going to the casket and trying to awaken his brother. He didn’t, of course. Agron knew. He’d been there when the monitors gave the final report of his brother’s heart, before it was forever silent. He’d been holding Duro’s hand, though the man had slipped into a coma and had been unaware of his surroundings. It hadn’t mattered, not to Agron. He’d gone every day and read to Duro. He’d talked to Duro. He’d done everything he could for his brother.
The services were pleasant. They played a few of Duro’s favorite songs, and everyone who stood to speak told tales of his exploits. He’d been a legend. It was the only time Agron had gotten a little choked up. He stood, waiting for the last, as his was the longest. He spoke of their childhood, of their life together; of how Duro had impacted every aspect of who he was as a person. And, how he was better for having known the man. In the end, he cleared his throat and turned his head away, until the lump in his throat became manageable. And, if his voice was a little shakier after, no one would have begrudged him that pain. He shook hands, when he stepped down, and accepted hugs from everyone who came to express their sympathy; until he stood alone in the room.
The same, pale man, accompanied by several others who looked like they had been swimming in a vat of embalming fluid, came to close the casket lid and see if there was anything else Agron needed, before they ushered him out. As he collected what wouldn’t be staying with Duro, an odd sort of gnawing ache developed in his gut. He didn’t believe in intuition, but this felt akin to foreboding. Something dark and maligned was going to happen. He almost asked to stay with his brother’s corpse, but thought better of it. Shaking off the odd sensation, he saw himself out.
But, though the graveside services were slated for the following morning, Agron had the distinct impression that he would not see his brother interred into the ground. He couldn’t explain it.
Just as he still couldn’t explain the strange, silver posts that almost felt like they were luring him. Like a siren’s song.
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