Echo(7)

No.

Life is a piece of shit.

It gave me a taste—one taste of sweetness—before ripping it away from me. The moment I decided to believe in hope, to believe in goodness, it was taken, only to remind me that I’m all alone in this world. But for once, I wanted to believe. I wanted to dig deep to find the good in me so that I could give it to him, however small of a piece it was.

I don my ink, bathed in black, to mourn my loves, but it isn’t their funerals I attend, it’s his. I don’t even have to pretend for family and friends because the depth of my heartache runs deep inside of me, only it runs for Declan and Pike, not Bennett, whose funeral I am preparing to leave for.

I’ve stayed far away from any news on Declan and Pike; their funerals have come and gone, I’m sure. But to show my face would be foolish. I can’t link myself to them if I expect suspicion to remain off of me. After all, I’m the spider’s silk that webs this whole game together.

Smoothing the wax of deep red lipstick along my lips, I remember how warm they felt pressed against Declan. His sweetness burned into them. Sometimes I couldn’t control my love for him, needing more, I’d bruise myself. Driven by pure desire.

I stand back, observing what’s left behind. Soft waves of red hair fall over my thinned shoulders, eyes sunken in from the sorrow that eats away at me, but with a few eye drops, my blues beam bright and I’m reminded of my daddy’s eyes that shone the brightest of them all. Loss is all around me; it’s all my life has ever been. I run my hands down the smooth black fabric of my shift dress and right myself for my husband’s funeral because this is a loss that I welcome with a full heart. Bennett is one of my few victories, albeit bittersweet.

The day is frigid and covered in grey. A light mist falls down on the cold earth as I drive across town to the cemetery where Bennett’s parents own family plots. I go alone—the black widow. Everything is black, including the limos and town cars that line the winding street, skirting its way through the immaculate grounds of Bennett’s final resting place.

As I park the car, I take a moment to breathe before I notice Baldwin walking my way, carrying a large umbrella over his head. I haven’t seen him since I let him go last week. Bennett is gone, and it’s time to start eliminating the remnants of him entirely, including his staff. I always liked Baldwin—I liked Clara as well—but after I let go of Baldwin, I said goodbye to her too. They both understood as I explained my reasoning. Clara was the hardest because a small part of me always felt connected to her as a mother figure to me, even though she was never mine to claim.

“Mrs. Vanderwal,” Baldwin acknowledges when he opens my door and takes my hand to help me out of the car.

“Thank you,” I murmur, eyes guarded behind my dark sunglasses.

His eyes are soft, full of concern, and I can tell he wants to say something, so I give him a smile filled with sorrow and he nods in shared pain, only mine is deceitful.

I loop my arm through his as he leads me over to the burial plot where Bennett’s casket is perched above ground, flanked by numerous sprays of fragrant flowers and weeping loved ones. I join them as tears roll freely down my face and drip slowly from my jaw. This * they mourn is the pure hate that festers in me. And these tears aren’t for him—they’re because of him.

As I’m led to the last empty chair, next to Bennett’s mother, my eyes meet Jacqueline’s over his casket. I want to smile at that pathetic woman, but I don’t, and she quickly looks away from me, shifting in awkwardness. She knows I know. The attorney called me the other day to tell me that he met with her to discuss Bennett’s will and trust for their bastard child.

I sit.

Time passes.

Words of hope and the glory and abundance of God wane on.

Life is a gift, the priest praises.

Bullshit.

The sounds of rain trickling down and people crying dissipate the longer I sit. Many stop and offer me their condolences as I cry and pretend the words that were just spoken here were really meant for Declan and Pike. I sit and reflect on them, honoring their lives today, not his. So I nod and quietly thank each person as they one-by-one turn their backs and walk away, emptying the cemetery.

Richard and Jacqueline stop, and in a very out of character move on Richard’s part, he gives me a hug, albeit short and tense. Looking over to the betrayer, she tilts her head in unspoken sorrow before opening her arms to me. I take her offering for appearance’s sake.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she whispers her multi-layered sympathies.