The first time he went to the grave, it was noon on a crisp, sunny Spring day. In his pressed dark suit, he looked like a normal mourner. It was three weeks after the funeral, so he was a little late, but a man giving sincere condolences nonetheless.
When he spoke, he did so softly, almost in a whisper. Even if there’d been someone only a few feet away, they’d never have picked up on his venom. They probably wouldn’t even have picked up on the stench of gin.
“You fucking bastard! You worthless fucking bastard! I can’t believe that after all you did, they came here and mourned you. Those filthy idiots! What they said was nonsense, utter nonsense. You weren’t a great man, a lovely man, a kind man. There’s no way you could even be called a good man. You were a murdering bastard! A worthless piece of shit. You deserved pain and suffering, not a fucking band playing your coffin into the ground. It makes me sick to think about it. You’re down there and I’m up on here, but it’s like you’re laughing at me. You’re still laughing at me!”
That hypothetical observer, at his or her little remove, wouldn’t have been at all surprised when the man then broke down and wept.
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