Lawrence Strahm looked as though he were just asleep, Leonard thought to himself of his twin brother as he peered down at his body. But he would never awaken. Not in this life. Lawrence died way too young. 30years young. Many have said he lived a full and adventurous life. That may have been true but to Leonard it was not enough to justify death at such a young age; there were plenty of years left for even more fullness and adventurism. It was just people bullshitting themselves in their failed attempts to understand or make sense of life being snuffed out at such a young age.
That wasn't what bothered Leonard. For he knew the circumstances surrounding his brother's death at least he knew even that was a bigger pile of bullshit.
'Choked on hardball candy'? Leonard mused. 'People, including immediate family members, with perhaps the exception of father, really believe that shit? Lawrence didn't even eat candy, period'.
Leonard stared at his brother. It felt eerie, as though he were a disembodied spirit gazing down at himself, his own demise. He fought back tears. No way he was going to shed them in front of these people, in front of his mother and father. He was always strong of mind; always had a gift of being able to focus or not focus on whatever he chose for as long as he chose and bend it to his will. His mental gift served him well but like all gifts it came with a price.
This once living breathing entity, his brother, was dead indeed, but something beyond Lawrence's physical existence was very much alive and Lawrence sensed it. It was reaching out to him to find those responsible for his brother's premature death and either bring them to justice or punish them. Leonard felt the stares and emotions behind them from every individual present, all jumbled, scattered like an unsolved million-piece puzzle.
Those with the Gift could do that.
If he so chose, he could concentrate and focus on any one person's emotions and know the motivation behind it. Right now, he morbidly reveled in the chaotic blend of the emotional storm of confusion, despair, wonder, hate, love, hope, mystery, admiration, curiosity, anger, self-deception and fear that raged around him. It electrified the air which he occupied and served mostly as a distraction for his own despair at the passing of Lawrence. It felt to him like a vital portion of himself was forever lost creating a void inside him, a wound that needed to heal or it would eventually engulf him and possible lead to his own demise, first spiritually then physically. He was not about to let that happen. All that mattered to him now was to find out who killed Lawrence, why, then deal with the moment. Thus far he felt no impressions from Lawrence's spirit, entity, energy, or whatever it was that when he felt it he knew intuitively it was right, valid. Perhaps it was due to the vibrational interference. Whatever signal, if any, Lawrence may have been attempting to send was drowned out by the more potent and dominant signals of the living. Leonard regretted not being able to make it to the states in time for the wake. There it would have been less interruption. But he had no choice. There was a delay of his flight out of Australia. Nonetheless he was here, and his quest would be to find those responsible for Lawrence's too early demise and exact revenge.
Leonard bowed to plant a final kiss on the cold forehead of his brother. He then peeled away from the coffin and headed toward the exit, making no eye contact with anyone. Not for lack of courage, but he did not want any distraction from picking up emotional energy from anyone but himself and maybe Lawrence. Seated in the front row was his mother, Dorothea Strahm. She is a handsome woman in her mid-sixties with a blemish free caramel complexion and prominent cheekbones that hint of her Native American lineage. A religious woman of warm countenance and forbearance and her own private need to control. She glanced at him over the rim of her glasses as he passed by. He briefly sensed a strong surge of mixed emotions emanating from her: there was betrayal, abandonment, confusion, compassion, love, anger, forgiveness and so much fear. A feeling like pain pierced his chest like so many daggers and he knew it was her pain he felt not his own. It was difficult but he willed himself to ignore it. He had to. It would only hinder and weaken him, like it had Lawrence. He felt for his mother, naturally, wanted to embrace and console her in such a time of need, but he knew, for lack of sincerity on his part it would only serve to make matters worse. She too had the gift of feeling/knowing and she would only grieve more. Love with freedom is liberating. With attachments it is oppressive and potentially deadly. On a deeper level, he reasoned, she understood that he realized this. That was what he chose to believe. He quickened his pace toward the exit door, back outside into the rainy, cool, damp New York City air and it felt good.
As Leonard stepped off the curb to remove a parking ticket stuck between the wiper and windshield, he strongly sensed a familiar presence…
"Leonard." It was the deep commanding voice of his father Jack Strahm; a voice shaped, molded by a lifetime of devoted service in the U.S. Marine Corp. He was a tall haggard-looking man who stood all of six feet five inches and weighed about a hundred fifty pounds. He was dying, for years. His was a slow death prolonged only by his natural stubborn character, dogged determination and will to live no matter what. He made a hell of a soldier back in his day. All the way to the rank of four-star General. He served his country well. But now, here he stood under a large black umbrella, a somewhat broken man with a deep abiding sadness playing in his brown eyes. He was a mere remnant now of his former self. His body has been under a vicious assault from a list of debilitating illnesses. His direct participation in three major wars, countless minor ones and his unwise insistence of being on the front line with his men during those campaigns over exposed him to toxic biochemical agents the U.S. government denies are in use. But the man's spirit kept an air of command and control even a sick body could not successfully disguise.
Leonard crushed the orange and white colored ticket in his hand and dropped it to the wet pavement.
"Pops," he said.
"That it?" Mr. Strahm demanded. "You just show up and leave just like that?"
"Nothing else to be done here, Pops."
"That right? How 'bout comforting your grieving mother for starters?"