Deagon tosses and turns on the top of a coarse armchair, knocking the thin blanket off of him onto the floor. He quietly mutters to himself as he gently kicks around; his powerful snoring collapses into a brief choking until his eyelids jut open. Through the tall windows to his side, rays of morning sunlight cast themselves harshly onto his skin. He rolls over toward the side of the chair, staring blankly into the wall for a moment. Not far from him, on the low coffee table just across from him, a flip phone begins to vibrate. He stomps his feet down into the coarse carpeting and leans forward, answering the phone. His straight face eases into a faint smile.

“Hey. It’s been a while since you called.”

His voice is raspy. He slowly eases back into the chair, the shifting weight creaking the

chair back against the wall. Slowly, he widens his eyes, and he furrows his brow.

“The hell are you talking about?”

He crashes his feet into the ground, standing himself straight up. The foundation of the house shakes. He paces straight through the living room and into the hall. Underneath his feet, beneath the well-kept room, there are old, dried bloodstains across the floor; along the sides of the room, there are ornaments of broken glass. He leans on the peripheral wall in the hallway just across from the armchair. The fluorescent bulb hanging from the ceiling flickers from time to time as it lets out a low buzz. The wallpapers are water-stained and peeled from the top, and the floorboards creak under each step.

“You’re for real… How long until you get here.”

He turns to his right and tromps along the rest of the hall, stopping in the small kitchen beside him. At its center, there is a single island, surrounded on all sides by cabinets lining the walls. The base of the central island is blood stained, and the tiled floor is speckled with dents and cracks all throughout the room. Deagon leans against the counter beside a coffee pot in the center of the room.

“How far out are you dumbasses?”

He reaches up toward the uppermost counter, where he reaches for a cup, his arms barely moving above his head while he reaches. He pressed the phone against the side of his head by his shoulder.

“Damn, I’ve got shit to do first. I’ll see you in a couple minutes.”

Deagon hurries toward the back door, clicking his phone, and tossing it on the central counter behind him. He pushes through the thin screen door into the backyard. A rickety, brown fence surrounds the property. In the center of the poorly kept yard, there are two neatly cut gravestones. One reads Flynt Moore, and the other reads Avery Pirc. Deagon stumbles up between the two stones and glances between them.

“This is it, y’all. I just knew this was… all for a reason.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

He stares intently at the two graves. His eyes redden. He hangs motionless over the yard for a minute.

“You alright?”

Deagon cocks his head up toward the back of the yard. Sitting over the top of the fence, her legs crossed out in front of her, Muriel looks down toward Deagon. He glances back toward the graves.

“I heard Braellyn found Jack. That’s exciting. I hope I can call you about something that cool one day.”

Deagon grunts. His voice is hoarse.

“Yeah. Sure is.”

“Are we friends?”

Deagon looks up at Muriel. She hops off the back of the fence and scuttles toward the center of the yard.

“Nevermind. Flynt left his present in the apartment.”

“Apartment? The hell are you on about?”

“The one you drew all over. Avery left hers there too.”

Deagon kneels down in the grass.

“They didn’t bring anything with them when they went to confront Jack. That’s pretty cute if you ask me.”

“Why are you here?”

Muriel paces over between the two stones. Deagon continues to stare down into the grass, kneeling. She slowly lowers herself into the grass, sitting down with her legs crossed between the two graves. Deagon glances up at her.

“I figured I should return them to their rightful owners. That’s all.”

Ringing out through the house, the high pitched chime of the doorbell rings. Deagon pulls himself up off the ground, and turns around toward the house.

“I know I’m gonna regret asking this, but… Where are they now?”

“Honestly, I don’t know very much about life after death. I’m sorry.”

Deagon lets out a deep sigh. He turns his head to face Muriel, but she is nowhere to be seen. Resting on top of the two graves are a black box and a pair of brass knuckles. He slowly tilts his head back around toward the houses and rushes inside. The doorbell sounds off a few more times, the time between each ring growing increasingly short. He charges through the kitchen, around the central island, down the hall, and he throws open the front door. Braellyn and Eleanor pour into the house, sliding past Deagon through the hall. Behind them, standing meekly at Deagon’s doorstep, Jack shuffles into the home.