Some time had passed since Lumen's death, and just like his name, so did the light of his family. Mikha'el and his father grieved on similar levels, flowing through the stages like trickling water. At some stages stagnant, yet the dam never held strong. And soon enough, he and his father had slowly come to terms with their loss.
The wake had been the hardest for them both. The thought of seeing Lumen scarred and stitched up would break them all over again. So they decided on a closed casket. Not too many people came. Very few infact. Mikha'el hoped that maybe even the glimpse of his past friend Antibes might cheer him up. Though she didn't show either. Her father was there, for official matters, of course. In the end, the lone shoulder he could cry on was his father's, and likewise for him, too.
Unlike the pair, Mikha'el's mother's grief took rampant charge over the family's life. Starting with denial. Her knees would be painted with blood daily, from scrubbing the hardwood floor, erasing all evidence of Lumen's passing. Tears did not escape her eyes.
When fellows would pass and give condolences, she would only say, "What for?" As there is no need to cry over something that is not lost.
For Mikha'el, anger dealt the crushing blow. It stole the love and warmth he had remaining in his heart. Like embers snuffed out on Mount Blanc's tip, leaving only the fleeting feeling of what had been. It was a sudden change in his mother. A detesting gaze. The whispering essence of a cold shoulder. Nothing too heavy, but he knew what was to come in his gut.
It was a day like no other. Mikha'el was coming in from school, boots soaked with rain and mud. Taking them off at the door, while chuckling internally about how he and Lumen had learnt that lesson long ago. "Mom… Dad, I'm home," he said, looking around to spot only his mother sprawled on their leather-bound couch. "Don't call me that." A hushed tone escaped into the air. Mikha'el was in the process of dropping his books onto the table when the words seemed to penetrate within. "Mom?" he asked in wonder, 'maybe I misheard.' There was no doubt behind the second as her vocal cords strayed against unsaid words. Her eyes displayed no grace for him. "You are not my son! Never call me that again! You are the reason he's dead. They came for you! They came for you, you devil. And killed my son in turn." Her yells began to wither as tears welled up in her eyes. He stood stunned in fear and shock, as the ale in her hand was sent flying, like a drum bringing an end to her spoken symphony.
"I–I–I."Only stutters could escape his lips, thoughts rushed through the young boy's mind, and in panic, he fled. Running back onto the cold cobblestone streets, feet slick with water, gripping the ground as much as he could muster. He ran faster and faster, yet the wind pushed against him, as if to forbid him from fleeing reality. He had no one to call to, no one who would care if he was alone. Or so he thought. After all, his mother was right. The pitter-patter of the falling droplets covered the sound of footsteps as they approached the boy. Finding him curled up in a shadow-filled alleyway. There, once again, were the three men who started this nightmare. Unlike last time, it was four that disappeared without a trace