Christian side—gunshots. All these thoughts and more string together at random, coming together in a collage of introspection.
Do I deserve to be alive?
What do I have to offer this place?
Not a whole helluva lot.
Church bells ring in the distance.
There’s a Catholic cathedral a few blocks over. Remo’s not exactly a man of tremendous religious discipline, however he does acknowledge his Southern Baptist upbringing—which is to say that his grandmother dragged him to the Lord’s house while his daddy slept one off. They had snacks, he remembers, a wad of bread and shot of grape juice. And not to be a dick, but isn’t church where people go when they’re dying? Where normal people go in an attempt to make peace with the man upstairs before they check out? That kinda thing?
Remo crosses the street, heads in that direction.
A hundred or so men and woman, all dressed in black, stand waiting as a casket is shepherded out of an elegant hearse. He can’t keep from watching the polished oak casket moving along. The care the pallbearers give to it. The care they all share for whoever’s inside that box. It’s pretty damn moving when you think about it—that thing looks fucking heavy .
Remo enters the magnificent house of worship. Stained glass fires off striking beams of colored light. An organ produces a rich soundtrack, letting you know it’s okay for sadness; it’s okay for tears. This is where you grieve. So, please, grieve.
He takes note of the sorrow on the faces of the people paying their final respects to their fallen friend or family member. His body tightens, eyes watering. Not for the poor soul in the handcrafted wooden box; he doesn’t know that man or woman. Nor are his tears for the loved ones left behind to pick up the pieces from this person’s passing.
Remo’s sadness is for himself. He sees the truth of his life and it hurts. There will be nothing like this when bites it. Not even close.
An elderly man passes and Remo grabs his arm to stop him. “Yes?” asks the man.
“How did you know the deceased?”
The man delivers his answer with great warmth, from a special place in his heart. The wrinkles in his face loosen above his glowing, honest smile. Just talking about the departed seems to melt years off the man. “He was great friend to me and my family for years. I’ve known him a long time—”
Remo cuts him off. “You’re going to miss him?”
The question confuses the man. “Terribly.”
Remo moves on, stopping other funeral guests as he goes. Finds a young woman and asks her, “And you, you’ll miss him as well?”
“Of course, he was—”
Not needing the full answer, Remo drifts on, moving to another, and then another. He’s beginning to cause a scene at the funeral he’s crashing. People are staring, starting to take note of the strange and disheveled man asking about the deceased.
Remo’s mind is an emotional taco salad, trying to balance the idea of this amazing mass of people gathered to honor the life of someone they cared about deeply against the crushing reality of the certain, nasty death he’s facing.
The church begins to swirl and twist, the world crashing. He shuffles in no clear direction, speech reduced to the muttering of a crazy person. For a moment he turns in a slow, small circle. He’s made it completely around the church, back around to the first elderly man, who stops Remo and asks, “May I ask whom you are?”
Remo ignores him, asks the older man the question of Remo’s lifetime. “And when you get your ticket punched, old-timer, people will probably miss you too?”
The old man’s answer is simple and so clear. “I hope so.”
Those three words put Remo’s mental puzzle together, slamming the pieces in place for the first time. People will miss the old man, no need for him to hope so. Remo knows he needs more than hope for people to miss him. In fact, nobody will miss him when he dies—sorry, when he gets viciously killed
Do I deserve to be alive?
What do I have to offer this place?
Not a whole helluva lot.
Church bells ring in the distance.
There’s a Catholic cathedral a few blocks over. Remo’s not exactly a man of tremendous religious discipline, however he does acknowledge his Southern Baptist upbringing—which is to say that his grandmother dragged him to the Lord’s house while his daddy slept one off. They had snacks, he remembers, a wad of bread and shot of grape juice. And not to be a dick, but isn’t church where people go when they’re dying? Where normal people go in an attempt to make peace with the man upstairs before they check out? That kinda thing?
Remo crosses the street, heads in that direction.
A hundred or so men and woman, all dressed in black, stand waiting as a casket is shepherded out of an elegant hearse. He can’t keep from watching the polished oak casket moving along. The care the pallbearers give to it. The care they all share for whoever’s inside that box. It’s pretty damn moving when you think about it—that thing looks fucking heavy .
Remo enters the magnificent house of worship. Stained glass fires off striking beams of colored light. An organ produces a rich soundtrack, letting you know it’s okay for sadness; it’s okay for tears. This is where you grieve. So, please, grieve.
He takes note of the sorrow on the faces of the people paying their final respects to their fallen friend or family member. His body tightens, eyes watering. Not for the poor soul in the handcrafted wooden box; he doesn’t know that man or woman. Nor are his tears for the loved ones left behind to pick up the pieces from this person’s passing.
Remo’s sadness is for himself. He sees the truth of his life and it hurts. There will be nothing like this when bites it. Not even close.
An elderly man passes and Remo grabs his arm to stop him. “Yes?” asks the man.
“How did you know the deceased?”
The man delivers his answer with great warmth, from a special place in his heart. The wrinkles in his face loosen above his glowing, honest smile. Just talking about the departed seems to melt years off the man. “He was great friend to me and my family for years. I’ve known him a long time—”
Remo cuts him off. “You’re going to miss him?”
The question confuses the man. “Terribly.”
Remo moves on, stopping other funeral guests as he goes. Finds a young woman and asks her, “And you, you’ll miss him as well?”
“Of course, he was—”
Not needing the full answer, Remo drifts on, moving to another, and then another. He’s beginning to cause a scene at the funeral he’s crashing. People are staring, starting to take note of the strange and disheveled man asking about the deceased.
Remo’s mind is an emotional taco salad, trying to balance the idea of this amazing mass of people gathered to honor the life of someone they cared about deeply against the crushing reality of the certain, nasty death he’s facing.
The church begins to swirl and twist, the world crashing. He shuffles in no clear direction, speech reduced to the muttering of a crazy person. For a moment he turns in a slow, small circle. He’s made it completely around the church, back around to the first elderly man, who stops Remo and asks, “May I ask whom you are?”
Remo ignores him, asks the older man the question of Remo’s lifetime. “And when you get your ticket punched, old-timer, people will probably miss you too?”
The old man’s answer is simple and so clear. “I hope so.”
Those three words put Remo’s mental puzzle together, slamming the pieces in place for the first time. People will miss the old man, no need for him to hope so. Remo knows he needs more than hope for people to miss him. In fact, nobody will miss him when he dies—sorry, when he gets viciously killed
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