By Hannah Bethany

The Benefactor was dead.

His corpse was innocently decorated in a spruce blue suit with a coal black silk tie to choke him. Three strands of English Lavender were tucked into the left breast of his welted pocket to symbolise some form of peace he was deprived of before being accepted into the afterlife.

Scriptures from the book of Psalms had been extracted to commemorate the evening; implications of how he’d gone to be with the Lord instead of the flame pit below. It was arguable how his expendability made him more susceptible to death, lacking the protection one would have freely obtained in the presence of a loved one. But he venerated his solitude, which resulted in his drowning devotion to his clientele.

In a circle of faith and sorrow, gratitude and shame, the list of names he sponsored, and occasionally abetted, from his leatherback book, attended his service to witness the pointless drip dropping details he had been honoured with; the white roses laid on his elm coffin; the hymns the church sang; the leftover black coats and modest dresses that had come to pay their respects, drawing out handkerchiefs to wipe away both true and false tears.

The Benefactor had spent most of his days lounging under a mustard tree that sat in the middle of the forty acres of land he owned somewhere in Andorra. He had a Calacatta marble table put directly beneath it; the expense of it completely irrelevant to the surrounding nature. 

There, he was at peace. 

As much as he had wished to die under that tree when his time came, he had not. He was found on the floor of a warehouse instead; his body propped up against a filthy wooden crate, a pool of blood enlarging around him on the cold cement floor. Most certainly not the contrast he foresaw.

Lonesome, the Mustard tree was now shading an unwanted visitor the day after the Benefactor’s funeral; it would have been questionable where its loyalties lied.

The man had arrived early. Enveloped in a tragic jeans jacket that should have been retired years ago, he took a seat at the marble table, draping his hand along the empty chair head next to him, the gesture appearing foreign in the absence of a woman or companion. 

Two other trespassers joined him thirty minutes later, but neither so much as exchanged a grunt of acknowledgement. Quietly, they took their places for the uncalled grief meeting.

–

He tugged at his collar, relieving it to reveal an inked tattoo of a boa groping along the side of his neck. It hugged his Adam’s apple in metaphoric agony, depriving him of living breath. Although inanimate, it became part of his disposition, slithering into his spiritual mind, bargaining his life with the angels. 

Without warning, he began to tear open the buttons on his shirt in reckless impatience, as if the reptile was beginning to possess him already. Beer in hand, he poured the ale all over his bare chest, suggesting that the cure to the weather was alcohol – drunk or bathed in.

Intoxication. The Farrier’s much preferred state to be in rather than whatever he sought reality to be. Reality was depressing. His reality was depressing. As far as he was concerned, he had sobered up for thirty years straight, but one morning phone call about the Benefactor dropping like a fly and he was back to shop at the liquor store down the street, drinking like a fish – make that a whale. And so, running through his regular list of vodka, tequila, beer, whiskey and an occasional James Bond martini for the week, the Farrier had forgotten the taste of water. 

It was his version of a “tribute” to the Benefactor for keeping him alive for all those years. Now that the man was no longer present to keep him from a breathalyser test at least thrice a week, he saw no point in preserving his little obedience act. One might have considered it to be a disrespectful tribute but the Farrier thought otherwise.

He didn’t believe the stories of the Benefactor’s death. He didn’t believe that such a man of great status and munificence could ever be harmed. The alcohol did do one thing right though. It silenced the chaotic questions that had begun to eat at him like a virus.

In ignorance however, he was constantly delaying his drunken quest to find the Benefactor’s Grim Reaper. He was in no position to play detective at the moment. 

But the voices in his head craved honest answers. And they would continue to harass him with their whispered asks so long as he wasn’t able to satisfy them.

–

The two men at the other end of the table, unfazed by the Farrier’s behaviour, politely declined the invitation to act in his same manner; they appeared to indulge in the more civilised attitudes of society.

The man seated to the left of the alcoholic kept his fedora on, his pride overriding his courtesy to pay respect to the situation they were gathering in. His fingers played on its rim, moving slowly along the smooth line, imagining it were a blade that cut him without pain.

The cigarette in his hand released a swirl of smoke as he tapped its butt onto the table, forcing an invisible ashtray to compensate his irresponsibility. In a raw and husky voice, he proclaimed that his lips have been blessed by the rollup.

No. The Italian was not blessed. He shouldn’t have been. After what he had done, goodness was bound to flee from him – regret however, would come around daily.

In the corner of his bedroom at home, there was a wingback chair which was horribly mismatched with the aesthetic of the room but he’d rather not leave it out to ruin the living room. Every night, the Benefactor would sit in that chair. He’d say nothing. He’s just stare at the Italian with fingers interlocked, a three line furrow on his forehead and an expression in the form of a disappointed question mark. Sometimes, the Benefactor would stand or walk around, like a father working up a lecture to a rebel child, but there was no mistaking the deathly silence he carried since the day since the Italian had sent his soul upwards.

Forever haunted by the Benefactor’s face in a nightmarish roulette, he had become restless, seeing statue ghosts of the man everywhere he went. In his godfatherly appearance however, he kept on a straight face, refusing to succumb to the downhill spiral of insanity that fate had planned in detail for him. 

He knew what he did had a purpose – but it was also unexpected as opposed to what he had meant to do. “I’m sorry Benny,” was all he could mutter on the first night of the Benefactor’s visit. Wise enough to know he wasn’t owed any forgiveness for his repent, the Italian would sacrifice sleep for fear that is felt a thousand times worse when the sun set.

If his mistakes were to be made known, especially to the two men at the table, his last cigarette wouldn’t be considered a blessing anymore. It would be considered his last delicacy in life; his last sin.

–

His eyes were rubbed to a unignorable shade of red, the corners of his smile dropped according to the pull of gravity, and the silence that followed him like a shadow had somewhat become disturbing as opposed to his regular motor of a mouth.

The Starman sat in a slouch, posture displaying his grievance on a pedestal. 

He had gone to the funeral; unlike the other two men. He hadn’t told them that he had caught the very last minutes of the service, hiding at the back pews of the church – best to make them think he was purely in the unspoken unison the three of them had structured.

A slow shiver made its way up to his neck, like a spider weaving its way through the intervertebral discs of his spine. He shuddered, closing his eyes to visualise himself in space, an empty arena of night black with only the glitter of stars that looked like it should be snatched into bracelet charms. He assumed the dark to be comparable to death, it must be what the Benefactor was seeing.

But the Benefactor was no saint; although many non-saints pegged him to be one. So, should he be deserving of such a view that was the acute definition of peace to the Starman was questionable indeed. Maybe he would be granted the least of the darkness and be robbed of the starlight.

The Starman groped at his chest, grateful to feel the soft thump of his heartbeat still intact – something the Benefactor now lacked. Although the four chambers seemed to be functioning appropriately, he felt as though he were going pale, sea green veins turning into an ugly shade of aubergine blue. Maybe it was because his view of the sun, moon and stars had suddenly become dim. He felt like he was seeing everything through the eyes of a dead man – or a soon to be dead man.

Putting himself in the Benefactor’s shoes – or his coffin – should have been the last thing he’d suffer to think of, but the thought darted to the front of his mind, shortening his life span in less than a minute.

He mumbled a prayer. Something about the Benefactor being wrapped in Saturn’s icy rings and a ‘rest his soul in peace’ at the very end of it, sealing the prayer with an ‘amen’. What good did it do? None. None at all. 

–

It began to drizzle. A slow drizzle; dotting the depressed like acid. The three remained in their states, unconcerned as to the possible downpour that could drown their souls.

Neither one had the courage to leave. They felt like their little reunion was the funeral. The real one seemed to be nothing but a stage act, a chance for the Benefactor to host one final gathering – even though death did him part. 

Hoarding separate feelings each, they sat in silence, not knowing what possible phrase would resurrect the Benefactor – not knowing if he should be resurrected at all. Still, they’d wait for the ground upon which his headstone was built to harden, when the rain no longer muddied the seal to the Benefactor’s end, and uprooted carnations were still being cast upon his grave. Until then, the stories between ‘what actually happened’ and ‘what might have happened’ would intertwine; with a contributory third of uncertainty, a third of surety and a third of anxiety. 

With an angry sky looming above them, they took it as a sign that they had overstayed their welcome. 

The mustard tree began to shake, leaves rattling like maracas. 

Their sorrow was useless here.

–

The Farrier drank the remains of his beer with the serpent turning it to poison while the Italian renewed his guilt, the dead man’s ghost standing twenty feet away from him now. And the Starman wept; with tears that could melt the buttery sun. 

–

Hannah is a Malaysian equestrian who also happens to be a law student. You can find Hannah on Instagram @hannahbethany603.