Glen's diary, winter.
In the cemetery of the high meadows of Locrian a funeral was held three days after the death of the subject. Alex Silva was a complicated man, very difficult to understand; easily vilified by many. The process of his wake was no different either. Alex Silva was the former leader of the lords of thorns; before him, and for more than half of his time as the leader, the lords of the thorns were nothing more than a gang of thieves and murderers born in the poorest neighborhoods of the city of Locrian.
There was a change in his heart one day after for some reason he decided to take us to Kashimir, Landert and me more than ten years ago. Later also Robbert. We stop stealing money, jewelry and supplies to start stealing something more valuable: information. This was thanks to Robbert's ideas.
Luckily, Alex as a leader was always open-minded to listen to everyone's opinions. Selling information offered much more substantial sums of money than the vulgar theft of a few jewels or homemade technology. Gradually, he left the decisions in the hands of us for, so gradually, he moved away from the stage.
He never had a peaceful life, he was always violent, and his life ended violently as it should be. Almost bitter poetry. It was raining that morning, so the flowers from his grave and from all the other graves in the cemetery began to drown in the frost. I had never seen Kashimir cry, I know him for being a strong man… much more than me. I feel that I am only look strong. Landert and Kassia were at the funeral too, so distant, however, he has never known how to hide the hatred behind his eyes.
Robbert has never been expressive. Melia barely knew him in person, she was the newest acquisition of the lords of thorns.
Alex Silva decided to live the violent life that his father inherited as lord of the thorns, and his grandfather in turn. Even after having moved away almost completely from us, and despite all the money at his disposal, he could not live more than a week in a rich neighborhood and that is why he took advantage of going to a place that reminded him more of himself. People inherit more from their cities than they think; the ways in which they gazes at others, in which they perceive the presences of others in the streets as they walk; how they eat, how they cross, how they greet, are geographical footprints marked with fire on the skin.
The funeral is over, Alex Silva is now on a tomb underground. A few days ago he was six floors high until someone came in and beat him to death by crashing him into the ground six floors below. A pathetic and violent death for someone whose life was always violent and extinguished so many others, sometimes for mere pleasure and mere craving. No one wants to fill their hands with blood, even to be a hero.
If they told me that Alex Silva only murdered bad men and not good and bad men, nothing would have changed on him. No one knows what it feels like to be on that side, even if the idea sounds great and looks better in the movies.
The raindrops that fall on his grave are cold and very heavy. Shattered the petals of the flowers. After we die, it is when everyone stops to think deeply about how we have lived. Do we think on 'That' to keep people living withim our hearts and minds? Or to keep them alive as someone who touches the area that a lover has just kissed to retain the kiss? At the moment I don't know what it is to die; I have been about to die several times, but my current "problems" does not allow me, instead I have seen my loved ones die one after another, and I have suffered both, their deaths, and suffered my life to the point of feeling that sometimes I'm getting insane.
Night has fallen and I am in Peridot. Landert has asked me to return to our hiding place on the other side of the bridge. I can't do it. Before I must see with my own eyes the crime scene! Its my opportunity.
I sneak through these streets full of prostitutes looking for clients, and criminals looking for a chance to assault me like any anyone else. There are many animals in these streets that seem to have no eyes but only their nose. There are children starving in the streets looking for pieces of bread, while on the other side of the bridge, there is bread thrown in the alleyways of the restaurants. The eyes of some yellowish men show their bile; others prefer to spit it out through schizophrenic monologues about the end times.
I climb to the sixth floor and force the window to enter. The scene is as it should be. There was a fight. They must have been at least three other men. There is no special smell in the apartment. I look in Silva's room and find cigarettes without uncovering which I keep for myself; in the drawers I find an album of photographs that requires a key that I could not find. and for another corner, his old pistol with the ammunition still to load him. I load the gun for him, and I keep it with me too. I decide to retire where I came, back again on my steps.
Glen, winter, eighth cycle.
