The city wasn't normally so gray, so bleak. On any day other than this the sun cast a friendly light on the people below. Cars honked and trucks roared down the interstate, music could be heard on every corner. Birds flew through the air, their songs a cacophonous backdrop to the rest of the noise. On any day other than this, the city was alive. But this day was different, the city was quiet outside the wrought iron fences and gates of the cemetery. A sea of black wrapped around a single, rectangular hole in the ground. The mourners came in all shapes and sizes, each wearing a mask of grief for the small family that remained.
The deceased was a man named Cillian Granger, former lawyer and United States Senator. Amidst the mourners were young men dressed in black, their hats white and their rifles resting against their broad shoulders. They stared straight ahead while a man in dark robes stood, speaking of impact, of honor, dignity and God. Inch by inch the casket was lowered as an elderly woman sobbed into her kerchief between the two men who sat on either side of her. One was thin with lanky arms and legs, the runt of the family. His hair was dark and shaggy, his brown eyes focused on his hands. The other was older, a man who wore his suit well and hid his grief as best he could in front of so many people. One arm was wrapped around his weeping mother's shoulders and the other rested on his knee, a balled fist the only emotion he dared let slip past his perfectly controlled expression. That man was a lawyer, just like his father.
When the casket was swallowed by the earth the first shots were fired. Some of the mourners jumped in surprise, though they had been expecting the shots all along. By the time they were finished the hole in the ground was a scar of earth, waiting for the next fall of rain to mash it all together. The crowd slowly thinned. One by one the mourners vanished into their cars and disappeared. The family remained afterwards, waiting for when the recently widowed Angela Granger was ready to leave.
The deceased was a man named Cillian Granger, former lawyer and United States Senator. Amidst the mourners were young men dressed in black, their hats white and their rifles resting against their broad shoulders. They stared straight ahead while a man in dark robes stood, speaking of impact, of honor, dignity and God. Inch by inch the casket was lowered as an elderly woman sobbed into her kerchief between the two men who sat on either side of her. One was thin with lanky arms and legs, the runt of the family. His hair was dark and shaggy, his brown eyes focused on his hands. The other was older, a man who wore his suit well and hid his grief as best he could in front of so many people. One arm was wrapped around his weeping mother's shoulders and the other rested on his knee, a balled fist the only emotion he dared let slip past his perfectly controlled expression. That man was a lawyer, just like his father.
When the casket was swallowed by the earth the first shots were fired. Some of the mourners jumped in surprise, though they had been expecting the shots all along. By the time they were finished the hole in the ground was a scar of earth, waiting for the next fall of rain to mash it all together. The crowd slowly thinned. One by one the mourners vanished into their cars and disappeared. The family remained afterwards, waiting for when the recently widowed Angela Granger was ready to leave.