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I'll always remember what I saw earlier this morning.
I ran into the forest, panting, horrified. I couldn't think straight—I couldn't focus. I just kept running, searching around in the darkness with little direction. I tried to recall how I went before but didn't consider that the location might have moved. Maybe someone changed the scene—maybe someone else was there. That thought made my feet bolt faster, trying to determine my next course of action. I didn’t know what to do when I reached there, I just knew I had to fix what I had wronged. I ran, I ran, and I ran.
I ran until I saw it again. My feet suddenly stuck to the grass, rigid and cold at a hard halt. My eyes widened in shock, and my chest sank.
On the floor, it lay, completely inert. A pool of blood formed at the top of its head; it spread out into a large area of pure red. It sank into the grass below. I wished it wasn't real, I wished I was dreaming. I wanted to turn away and throw up. The smell of blood was pungent, making me sick to my stomach. I wished, so dearly wished I could turn away and run again—but above the corpse was a man, kneeling on top of its legs. I couldn't believe it for a moment; I rubbed my eyes and blinked, but the sight wouldn't change when I opened it again. This is what I hoped was simply paranoia, but my worst nightmare of this situation came true. If I ran, I don't know what this man would've done to me. His hands were on the head, smearing the blood with a pair of gray gloves.
He finally moved his head, turning away from the body when he heard my loud, tense breathing.
When his eyes met mine, I never felt closer to death than that very moment. My chest hurt—I fucked up, badly. I shouldn't have come here, I made a mistake. I opened my mouth, wanting to speak, but I was completely taken aback. The blood in my veins froze, and I couldn't feel anything anymore. I had gone completely numb. My lips were cold and numb too, making it hard to speak. I stammered, “What—What are you doing?” It was hard to get out.
He just stared at me. He didn't move an inch, and his attentive eyes glued onto me like I was being scrutinized, just like the corpse below. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know if I should run away, again, attack him, or continue questioning him like nothing. Blood covered his hands—he made a mess, wiping his hands on the gaping, gushing wound. From here, I couldn't tell if he was playing around or trying to observe something beyond the surface. It sickened me—Just what was this man planning to do?
He stood up and glared at me. His face—God, oh God, I couldn't tell what this man was thinking, feeling, or planning. His eyes were a plain, bland gray, and a gray mask covered his mouth. His eyebrows didn't move either. Gray, still, emotionless—like a statue of sorts. He finally spoke, with his voice hard to understand clearly through the mask. He put a hand out as if he was trying to calm me down. “I will help you if you help me. Just listen, please.”
A shiver crawled down my spine. I couldn't begin to describe the effect his voice had on me. It was so monotone and calm as if a dead body wasn't right in front of him. His demeanor, with every second he spoke and moved, drove me further and further away as I took unconscious steps. I whispered, “Help?”
“Yes. I won't speak of this to anyone—I trust you'll do the same. You don't have much of a choice, either. I will explain your assistance very shortly. However… What is your name?”
I didn't know what this guy was planning or could do—he terrified me. I didn't want to mess around or piss him off, so in an instant, my lips let it out, trembling like the world around me shook. “My name is Andrew Kreiss. I—Um, what is yours?” I immediately regret saying it. He could do anything with that information, and yet, my impulses got the best of me with my overbearing terror. Sweat trickled down my temples, then dripped off my chin. My hands were drenched too, with my body shaking overwhelmingly. No matter what this man tried, I couldn't find out how to calm down in this situation.
“Aesop.” He held his fingers together, rubbing the blood that spread across the tips of his gloves. He said, “Well, Andrew, I wanted to ask… Do you know how to embalm a corpse?”
I swallowed a breath, my throat so tight I thought it would explode. I didn't know what to say or do, worried about his plans. Embalming… How could that have anything to do with this body right now? There were bigger questions to ask—how did he find the body? What else could he have done? What’s he going to do with it? What's he going to do with me?
Is he going to hurt me?
I tried to back away, but my back hit something, and I jumped. A tree stopped my tracks, making me unable to leave it. I shivered against it behind me and continued to stumble over my words.
·༺♰༻·
It seemed like he'd been in darkness for as long as he could remember; even walking through the funeral home after hours was shrouded in shadows and shade. Even though he was invited—no, instructed —to arrive, he felt like he sinned just by stepping foot in this place. Aesop walked in front of him while he followed, but the two had been mostly silent throughout. It unsettled him to his every bone. The funeral home was dark like he wandered in a void, but as long as Aesop stood in front, he knew the only direction he could continue. Even then, it took him much effort not to want to panic or run away. He tried to ease the tension, and said, “I've—I’ve never been in an embalming room.”
“Really? Then I hope this first time is a worthy experience, Andrew.” Aesop smiled at him as he grabbed the handle. But his hand stayed still for a moment as his eyes locked into Andrew’s blood-red irises. He inhaled, and continued, “I’ll try my best.” His hand finally lowered with a creak, and he pushed the silver door open.
Worthy?
Andrew swallowed, scratching his head. “What, you plan to take me back here?”
Aesop paused in front of the doorway, almost forgetting Andrew stood right behind him. “If I need to, yes. This is for the both of us. We made a deal.” He continued his footsteps, and Andrew followed suit. However, each step he took required much strength to keep going. He didn’t want to see the body—he knew the sight of it would bring memories and images to his tainted mind he couldn’t begin to fathom again. But he didn't have a choice—he had to be here. He owed this man.
Andrew followed Aesop as he walked further into the room, and in an instant, the coolness hit his body like a frigid, rainy night. Many, many counters lined the walls of the room. An assortment of machines, mechanisms, and miscellaneous tools covered every surface. The sight was enough to bring Andrew much anxiety. What was the purpose of every machine? Every tool? He could only imagine whatever he was about to witness. He's been at funerals, of course, but it's not an everyday thing that a person can see the process of embalming. Andrew, especially, didn't want to see this exact corpse embalmed—the one he heard the voice of, knew the mannerisms of and had gone so swiftly. In the middle, was a table, and a sheet covered the table completely, with bumps in the silhouette of a human. He shivered at the sight of it and knew exactly what was next.
Aesop lifted his hand to the top of the sheet and pulled it down.
Andrew’s eyes went wide, with his stomach twisting at the sight of his lifeless, yet familiar face. His lips and skin were pale, so discolored it almost looked green under the cool light. Hell, so much Andrew could question if this was the same man he had met up with just a few hours ago. With his chest tightening, he turned away, looking at the floor.
With an eyebrow raised, Aesop took note of his reaction. But he didn't comment and simply moved to a shelf on the wall, where gear hung up. He came back, and said, “Here.” He held a pair of goggles out to Andrew. Hesitantly, he raised his hand and began to put them over his face. Then, next, he was handed a mask. Aesop put the loop of string around his ear, then pulled it across to his other one.
As Andrew adjusted it, he said, “Do I need a gown as well?” muffled under the thick cloth.
“You don’t need one; the mask and goggles are fine. You won't be doing anything to get dirty.” He grabbed the hand of the corpse, starting to massage it, but paused when he saw a faint blue mark. They had been in fists, stiff and stuck like rock. He rubbed them, lifting each of his fingers until they rested as naturally as he could get over his stomach. He placed the other hand, which had a green mark this time.
“The painter. He was a fine, fine man. Very inspiring, honestly, as an artist myself.” Aesop stroked his finger where a third paint mark was.
“You? An artist?”
“Would you consider embalming an art form?”
Andrew furrowed a brow, wondering to himself for a moment, and replied, “In a way. It takes some artistry and deeper understanding than what most would assume.”
“That’s what I believe.” Aesop’s eyes squinted slightly, with an obvious smile forming under his gray mask. He sighed, getting back on track. “First thing we need to do is set the features. Massaging is important, due to rigor mortis. Of course, you know what that is, right?”
Andrew swallowed, and stammered, “Yes.” His eyes went wide, discomforted. He found it strange at best, and horrifying at worst, especially with the amount of detail he dove into. Andrew came here to help, not necessarily to listen to him rambling—which Andrew didn't expect at all. This man was bizarre, but of course by their first meeting, that much was obvious.
“Hands, shoulders, etcetera,” Aesop continued. He gestured over to a counter. “Grab me that block. Two of the metal, and the white one.”
Andrew nodded and walked to the counter. He watched as Aesop put one on the back of Edgar's neck, and two under his shoulders. He settled his head, holding his cheek as he faced up—not perfectly straight, but not slouching either; natural-looking and presentable. He then slipped a thumb between his slightly parted lips and spread them open. To the side, he grabbed a pair of tweezers with a ball of cotton. He sprayed it with disinfectant, wiped around the inside of the mouth, and said, “We want to clean the inside up—this also loosens it to make their face look restful."
Andrew swallowed, with his palms becoming damp as he held his hands. Sweat beads formed atop his head, and his face was infested with pallor as the nausea grew. For something as simple as sanitation, his reaction was intense. He grew so unbearably uncomfortable. The simplest of movements sent him over the edge. As he fidgeted with his fingers, he wondered how he could manage to sit through this.
A long, tight thread extended between Aesop’s fingers as he pulled it apart. Attaching it to a needle, he curled it around his finger and leaned close. The needle poked through his jaw, and Aesop pulled it out up to his nose. Then, it jabbed again. Through the septum, the long string traversed through his face like a tapeworm. Aesop shut his jaw, with his lips sealed tightly now with an expert suture. His face lay perfectly still—but looked closer to being alive than before.
Andrew knew he shouldn't watch—every second was painful, but he couldn't keep his eyes away, no matter how nervous he became. Something of morbid curiosity, along with this feeling like a cage surrounded him, rendering him trapped in this foul, foul room.
With a flick of a knob, a loud whir filled the cold room as the machine began to mix the embalming solution. The sound pierced through Andrew’s ears, stabbing through his throbbing head. With swishing and buzzing, the sensations only kept piercing into his skull. It was loud—it irritated him, but he had to stay still and comply.
Aesop lifted a scalpel and pierced it into the skin on the collarbone. He cut until he reached close to the Adam's apple. “The carotid artery is where we inject the fluid. Right here in the neck.” He pointed as he made eye contact with Andrew, whose scarlet eyes jolted back down to the floor the moment they met Aesop’s. His reactions were somewhat amusing to Aesop; seeing an inexperienced person, for the first time in his life, watch him go about his process. He looked as if his pale face had gone green, with his nose scrunched and his eyes squinting. Aesop questioned, “Are you okay?”
The sound of the machine stabbed his head deeper. Andrew grimaced, and as if his insides were being churned like fluids, he started to get nauseous. But he cleared his throat, and said, “Yes. Continue.”
Aesop pulled the tube connected to the machine, and said, “This is what we call the arterial tube. We use this to dispose of blood.” He took out a set of forceps and inserted them right into the neck. “This is the jugular, where we drain,” he said, creating another bloody incision. The tube pushed into the slit, widening the opening to show a deep crimson. It made a nasty sound as it plunged in, and Andrew made a face. Aesop asked, “Can you hand me that over there?” He gestured to a long, clear container on the side of the counter.
Without a word, Andrew did as he asked. His arms shook when he picked it up, unsteadily carrying it over to the table. As he approached, he tilted his head to the side, away from the body. Andrew slid it beside his neck. Without thought, his eyes jittered—until they halted to Edgar’s face. Seeing it made his shoulders jump, and he quickly stepped back away. Even being close to the body sent shivers down his goosebump-covered skin. Pursing his lips, he shut his eyes tightly. Blood started to travel through the tube, making it become a deep crimson. Then, it all flew out into the container, creating an abhorrent sloshing sound. Andrew turned away from it and held back a gag. The smell made his nose tingle. He scrunched his face, watching it fill up with blood.
It felt like ages and ages could go on, and he'd remain in this room. The door laid still, but if Andrew left, he knew he'd put himself in an even worse situation he couldn't imagine further.
Aesop said, “We massage the body to help the flow of the fluids.” He grabbed his fingers, rubbing them. His hands then went down to his arms, carefully massaging all over his body, and then went down to his thighs. He was so meticulous with every movement, Andrew wanted to be impressed, but he couldn't shake his overwhelming fear.
Aesop stopped to grab the scalpel from before, this time, making a small incision in the stomach area. He said, “Next is what we call cavity embalming. Mind handing me the trocar? Third shelf. Long, silver, pointed.”
Andrew turned, and with reluctance, picked up the instrument. His eyes went wide, scared to watch any further. And when he gave it to Aesop, he turned his head away from him, still uncomfortable beyond comprehension.
Aesop connected it to a tube, saying, “Thank you. This, we insert here.” He pushed it through the incision made, angling it in a precise manner, right above the navel. Soon, he pushed it in and out, with fluids flushing through the tube into a sink. He continued to move in and out—the sight made Andrew queasy as if he was the one having his stomach pierced. Everything emitted foul noises that made his skin crawl. He saw it sticking out, making the skin fluctuate throughout the process. He removed it, twisting it to the other side of the chest, continuing to shove in and out, pressing his hand all over the body. He even turned it around, where he felt around the torso as he jabbed through to the groin.
Soon, he finally stopped. The trocar slid out of the wound, covered in a bright sheen of red. He pulled out the needle and thread earlier to fix the mouth, using it to sew the incisions together.
But Andrew couldn't be at peace yet—he had been asked for another order.
“There's shampoo and conditioner over there. May you get me that?” He asked, pushing his fingers through his hair. He smiled when Andrew came back with the two bottles, and said, “His hair is quite fine. His locks are very defined, even after death. Fascinating.”
Andrew grimaced at him. Everything he said, whether intentional or not, sounded so horrific, that it made Andrew wish he could run away more and more. But he was stuck—he had to go through with this. Something about the way he intimately complimented the man he was embalming was utterly unsettling.
Aesop wet his hair with a spray bottle, and gently combed through with shampoo in his hands. He was careful with every stroke and brush. Andrew found himself mesmerized watching until he was snapped out by Aesop’s voice.
“We must cleanse them.” He wet the body, and said, “Now, we wash them up.”
Andrew turned back to where he got the shampoo and grabbed a bottle of soap. Immediately, he took a sponge from a shelf with many and carefully washed his body. He was very specific with the way he moved his hands, going over his skin tenderly like he was feeling the texture of a painting. From his shoulders to his chest, his arms, his midriff, down to his thighs and calves. He soon grabbed a towel and patted around his body lightly. He scrubbed around to the other side, making sure to leave not one spot untouched.
“Andrew.”
His head perked up. “Hm?”
“We must now do touch-ups.” Aesop put a hand on his hair, and his fingers stroked through his bangs lightly. He caressed down to near his ear, pulling his hair back to reveal the nasty mark that covered the top part of his head. He sighed, “He’s rather pretty already. What a shame.”
“Is—Is it really needed?” Andrew made a nasty face, giving Aesop a glare that emitted disdain.
“Livor mortis hasn't set to the fullest; it's been a few hours. But he's not to his best potential.” Aesop put a hand on his cheek, turning it lightly. “This cheek has more color, since he was angled when he died. Does that make sense?”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
Aesop pulled out a briefcase, which he opened to reveal multiple tools and supplies. He first grabbed what looked like a moisturizer, covered a brush with it, and lightly stroked over Edgar’s face. He followed the shape of his eyebrows, rubbing in the direction of his cheeks and lining his nose. He took another brush from the kit, and then a pallet. Andrew wouldn’t have been able to separate normal makeup from that of a mortuary setting since it looked so much alike. And with that, it all came to Aesop naturally; he made a spot on the wrist part of his glove, checking the color and swatch. The brush in his hands became tinted with the color, and he started to stroke over his face, giving his skin a tint that looked so much more alive already. After that, he had a smaller brush, where he lightly colored in his dull lips which had all the tone completely drained away.
Andrew felt his throat get tight, and his eyes started to feel damper. He looked away from his face, down to the tiled floor. He couldn’t bear to watch how peaceful he looked now after what had happened. Though his expression looked so tranquil, it hurt to look at.
Aesop spoke, snapping him out of his trance.
“Mind helping me with the dressing?”
Andrew nodded in response, stepping closer with reluctance. When Aesop handed him the suit, Andrew stared at it with a somber gaze. The suit that hung over his hands was elegant, using beautiful gold accent colors, making it very fitting for Edgar himself. He began to undo the shirt and handed it to Aesop, who grabbed the white button-up and pulled his arms out to insert them into the sleeves. Every step was Andrew doing small preparation, and Aesop did the hands-on parts of actually touching the body. Andrew did not dare do so, no matter how much he wanted to help Aesop get this job done. Every moment felt so unbearably slow for Andrew. He just wanted this over with—he couldn’t stand the torture anymore.
·༺♰༻·
I sympathized with him.
I completely understand the desire to free someone from this world. Especially out of love, this feeling is so, so strong. So when I found that body, my understanding of the scene concluded that there was a form of affection between the victim and the murderer. At least, that's the best-case scenario, or it's just another foul murder like the next. Whatever it was, I was curious about this unfortunate body I stumbled upon.
He sat in the dark grass under the shade of the trees, and I didn't catch it at first until I tripped when walking. I looked down to see an entire corpse—I raised an eyebrow, confused, and squinted as I analyzed closer. I was trying to find the abandoned manor across this forest, which no person would ever cross normally, so I least expected a body. Why would this man be here? Why would the killer bring him here? Did they have some sort of plan together?
I kneeled, looking at the body. There was a large gash in the forehead, where much bleeding occurred. It made a large, large pool beneath his hair. I put a hand to the mark—it was still damp. This was recent. This fact especially intrigued me.
The murderer must've been a frantic individual with an abnormal personality. Most intelligent murderers would try to cover up wrongdoings as soon as possible, but this one seemed way too shocked out of his mind, scared of his crime. He fled the scene soon, wishing to run away from his problems and consequences, but surely things would come to light soon. He may be an idiot, actually, or probably mentally unstable. There's got to be something to explain why a murderer would leave such an obvious mess.
I looked closer at the face, pulling his bangs back. I originally saw bugs crawling. Small, dark dots scattered around his face. Soon I realized I was mistaken; the specks weren't bugs, but a great deal of dirt. Though, most likely some bugs did crawl along this corpse, being out in the wild like this. The dirt looked compact; I touched it with a clean finger and realized how healthy and moist it was. Soil. The more I thought about it, the more I realized hints about who this murderer was. Someone who works with soil and dirt—must be a gardener. Or perhaps a gravekeeper? Maybe even an operator; could be an excavator or something of the like. Though, I can't imagine someone with this much anxiety working with a machine like that. I stuck my assumptions with a gardener.
The sight was viciously grim—the amount of blood and the mess on his face was enough to make it unsightly to me. But just then, the blood in my own body ran cold when I heard a sound. It was a gasp, mixed with loud breathing.
I turned my head to the sound, and immediately, thoughts erupted in my head.
This may be the murderer.
Who else would come to this place at such a time? With this uncovered crime, he most likely came back to fix this. However, he made a huge mistake on his part. I had probably made one as well because as I stared at him, this situation became unbearably awkward. He stood there, shaking like a leaf in the autumn, completely stunned. He truly had a frantic personality—being scared of his murder is questionable.
“What—What are you doing?” he finally asked.
I looked down at his shaky fingers—on his pale, white skin, his nails had much dirt under them. With calloused fingers and brittle nails, I had my suspicions.
I stayed completely calm. I know he was highly agitated and fearful right then. In an attempt to alleviate any anxiety, I tried my best with my words.
“I will help you if you help me. Just listen, please.”
“Help?”
“Yes. I won't speak of this to anyone—I trust you'll do the same. You don't have much of a choice, either. I will explain your assistance very shortly. However… What is your name?” I asked; I looked him in the eye, but immediately, he turned his head away. His fear was clear as day, making him unable to function properly. He was very frantic, more than I initially guessed.
“My name is Andrew Kreiss. I—Um, what is yours?” He started to pick at his dirtied nails, with his fingers trembling wildly.
“Aesop.” I replied. “Well, Andrew, I wanted to ask… Do you know how to embalm a corpse?”
“I'm sorry—What? Why?” His face got paler than before.
I put my hand in my breast pocket, pulling out one of my handkerchiefs. I pressed it to the forehead of the corpse, and it immediately became soaked with blood. I patted him repeatedly, folded it over, and continued with a clean spot. “He's very beautiful. It'd be a waste to get rid of him. What, burn him? Toss him into the ocean? Something along those lines for disposal?”
“I didn't have a plan. I don't know—I really don't.”
“As a matter of fact, I have a perfect way to go about covering this. His beauty will not be in vain, while none of this will come out to anybody. Does that work for you?”
“Please, elaborate. I don't—I don’t understand what you're saying.”
“I'm an embalmer. I try my best to bring beauty out of corpses for viewing. In that process, they get cleaned and tidied up, like nothing even occurred. Even grisly, violent homicides like this one. So, I ask that you help me embalm him, and we can forget about this. You can forget about this, and nobody will know.”
“Are you sure you won't tell anyone?”
“Why would I lie, Andrew? No person would go through that work for no reason, just to go rat on somebody in the end. I value my work—and this one I plan it to be spectacular.”
·༺♰༻·
Aesop smiled, looking at his creation; it turned out just as he wished. But knowing he had someone to help and watch made it more intriguing for him. This passion, he usually would be met with much stigma and horror, making him unable to find anyone to be able to have this opportunity within years. He fixed a small wrinkle in the sheet that draped over Edgar’s dressed body, gazing at his face.
He murmured, turning around, “Thank you, Andrew.”
He only stared, not saying another word as he fidgeted with his fingers. He stayed watching Aesop just observing Edgar—he didn’t know whether he found himself utterly bored or uneasy. Whichever it was, it made his body twitch and go pale. He opened his lips and hesitated before asking what had been swarming in his mind.
“Do you do this kind of thing often? Clean up murders?”
Aesop's eyebrows raised, looking curious. After a moment of hesitation, he looked to the floor and nodded. “Yes.”
His ribcage felt like it would break from how rough his heart thrashed. His blood ran cold, with his heart dropping in fear. He struggled to get out his words, and asked, “Are you a murderer yourself, Aesop?”
“Well.” He lifted a hand to his masked face, clearing his throat. “I wouldn't call myself a murderer. However, I do what is merciful to those who deserve it—to those I care for.”
Andrew’s knees felt like they'd give out on him. He held himself up, even though the air felt so thick he worried he'd lose his breath. He suspected as much—or something along the lines—but hearing him say that so bluntly and honestly made shivers run down his body like rapid fire. He asked, with a hint of fear in his voice, “That—That makes no sense. What do you mean?”
“Well… First I want to ask you, did you love him?”
“What?”
“Just answer.”
“The hell do you—? How—In what way? I… He…” Andrew took in a breath, stabilizing himself. He finally said, “We were friends. Is that enough of your probing?”
“If you find my questions probing, why are you answering?”
“I don't want you to hurt me.”
Aesop laughed to himself and sighed. “I just helped you get away with your crime, and here you are, scared of me.” He turned closer to Andrew, who slightly backed away. “You know what I think? Maybe that love was involved. Maybe you wanted to show him mercy.”
“I don't think so, Aesop. I'm not you. I'm not some sick menace who finds murder freeing.”
“ I'm sick? You're a major hypocrite. It doesn't seem like you're too well yourself. Someone in the right headspace would've done something immediately about their crime, I'm sure. But you ran away.”
Andrew bit his lip. He stammered, and said, “I’m scared, Aesop, God, I'm horrified. I don't know what to do with myself, I don't know what to make of myself. I'm a monster, I truly am. After all this time, I've only proven this…”
“You're no less insane than me, if you really force yourself to believe your crime was with anything but good intention.”
Tears started to well in his eyes, and he blinked, hoping to stop them, but they dripped down his cheeks soon enough. He regretted every decision that led to this, he knew he shouldn't have been so erratic, but he ended up letting his emotions take control of his arms, swinging it across his head ruthlessly. He put a hand on his forehead which burned with his flushed face, leaning down on his knees. His head burned, feeling feverish and unstable. He couldn't find his thoughts.
He only put his head in his hands, and shakily let out an exhale with more tears rolling down his cheeks.
Aesop stared at him, uncertain of what to do. He wanted to comfort him, but it seemed like his words made him more emotional. He rubbed his hands together, feeling them sweating through his warm gloves.
“When I killed someone for the first time, I felt guilty too. But I had good intentions—I knew that. With that fact, you can't dwell on what happened. You must forgive yourself and let go. Do you understand?”
“What if I didn't?”
“What do you mean, ‘What if?’ Do you not know?”
Andrew couldn't find himself in his mind. He felt so lost through the mess of his emotions, it felt like his heart was louder than his mind. He pulled his hair, shaking all over as he tried to think.
“I’m just—I just couldn't stand it anymore. I cared for him, but… It all happened so suddenly. Ever since I picked up that god-damned shovel, I haven't been able to process anything other than my fear. I'm so scared Aesop, I really am.”
“Was it a crime of passion?”
Andrew shrugged, sniffling.
“It sounds like so if it was impulsive.” Aesop sighed and looked back at the corpse. “Especially with your guilt and frustration right now, I can imagine in the heat of the moment that you became oversensitive.”
Andrew wiped his face with his hands and stammered. “What—What are you analyzing me so much for?”
“I want to understand you. I sympathize with you, and I did all of this to help a stranger. I don't think it's surprising that I'm curious, but I do apologize if I come off overbearing.”
With a bead of sweat down his face, Andrew felt a strong pain in his stomach; a twisting, knotted feeling, making him sicker than he already was. He hunched over himself, pushing his forearms into his body. With his head low, he murmured, “I just don't know.”
He was right, Aesop could assume. He was completely unstable, so much so that he couldn't form the words to describe what even happened or why. But in the end, he still felt this strange care that made him want to comfort him. He couldn't figure out how.
“You can refer back to me if anything happens again. I know we just met, but you have enough trust to tell me this information. I think it's best you rely on me for anything you may need. Your crime won't be known. At best, all you can do is accept it. After all, you loved him. He loved you. He would have forgiven you.”
“How the hell would you know that?”
“Here, Andrew.”
Aesop put out a hand to Andrew’s dismay. He wanted to slap it away, but again, he owed Aesop. He couldn't deny his kindness through all of this. He wasn't forced to fix Andrew’s wrongdoing, but he did it anyway. He deserved kindness back—so, very reluctantly, Andrew took his hand. He strolled closer to the coffin and felt his heart drop. He didn't even notice his hand gripping harder onto Aesop’s, unable to stabilize himself in reality. Aesop let him; he knew how emotional he was.
“Love is important in life, but with death, just as much. Even in the very moment of death—the moment you acted, still, you cared. If you two were friends, I'm sure, something was there. Acknowledging your heavy regret, too.”
Andrew’s stomach started to hurt even more. He sharply inhaled and sighed. He wanted to be furious at what Aesop was saying. He didn't know them, how could he just assume so much? Assume the love, assume Andrew’s personality, assume his motivations? He wanted to feel offended or taken aback, but he only sat, taking in the words he spoke. His head burned so much that he couldn't recall much, think about much, all but the present moment and the present words he heard. He wished he could go back, but he remembered what Aesop said. Maybe he should forgive himself. Maybe he should remember love. Maybe there was merit in his words, in one way or another, even though he sounded completely out of his mind. Andrew wasn't too sure, but he found himself feeling something strange in his chest. It felt tight and fluttered, making it hard to breathe.
He looked back up at Edgar, longer than he could've managed before.
Forgive yourself.
He wanted to say sorry, but he wanted to let this go. He wished there was justification. His mind went through so many thoughts.
I hate you. I love you. I didn't want this. I've always wanted this. You deserved this. This was unwarranted.
He tried to tell himself so many ideas, hoping something would stick, just so he could get a sense of understanding and ground himself. After all, he didn't have much of an understanding in the first place. He just wanted something, anything to hold onto, to relieve himself, lost and afraid for what felt like forever. He looked to Aesop, who still had his eyes on the corpse.
“Do you regret it?”
Andrew shut his eyes, hearing the words repeat on his head. Love, care, forgiveness, regret—all of it, but still, he struggled to find himself in oblivion. So he felt he could accept it if that was enough to settle his mind; anything would do if it meant he'd finally let go.