Zihuatanejo:

It was a day that teemed with a sort of nostalgia, lingering in the air like some indecisive wave, neither wanting to land nor float away. I stood there, somewhat confused. To my left Deirdre stood rather elatedly (although you could not tell from her appearance). She had a smirk of sorts painted deep into her face, but it was hidden behind a dark veil. Of course I could not blame her, today couldn't have been more hard on the heart than what I could ever fathom.


The Self-Indulgent Altruist (/PmC):

I wondered what forces had tucked the smirk into the corners of her lips at precisely that angle. Perhaps she thought it fashionable. I did not know.
She had a funny way of reminding me of a sphinx. What passions lurked behind her eyes, in the twitch of her mouth, the movement of her fingers.
I couldn't tell whether it was she that was distracting me from the hazy nostalgic tone of the atmosphere, if she created it, or if she was simply a witness to it all, playing her part silently and mysteriously in a day that seemed designed for such unobtrusive conspiracies.

Zihuatanejo:

But then again, who was I to compromise my already delicate relationship with her by asking these somewhat unanswerable questions? I had never thought, even for the slightest moment, that I could double guess her actions. Strange as it felt, though, I had to let her be. There was little I could do before tripping over that metaphorical line we called her personal space and stumbling our relationship into a screaming kerfuffle. Besides, I really didn't like her. She was just a connection to James, to his past. I needed to know what she knew. And now that James had died- the priest is blessing his casket- I needed her more than I was willing to admit to.


The Self-Indulgent Altruist:

I shifted my attention to the small cluster of individuals around me, seeking comfort in our shared experience... but even as I glanced towards them, dull-eyed and black-suited, I knew that these people, most of them, would gladly melt back into the comforting monotony of their everyday lives after this elongated moment of collective mourning.
James was the sort of enigma few would know how to express their relationship towards. He was the sort of person that anyone who had the pretension of being decent and self-respecting would marginalise in their lives.

Zihuatanejo:

The first time we had met, he had come to me in a mad rush, throwing my office door into the wall, near ripping it from its hinges. Covered in blood and rendering several broken teeth, he smiled and muttered: "there's a poor bloke next door to you, I think he's a little bruised and battered, you know what I mean?" His scrawny body spasmed for a moment and he indicated down the hallway. "D’ju know you were workin’ next to a scam artist?" He laughed, coughing up blood. "Oh yeah. And yer might wanna call the ambulance". And with that he exited, his back pulled straight like some posh middle-aged woman wearing a cheap imitation fur scarf. I remember laughing long into that evening. In fact, you could say that I liked James from the beginning.

The Self-Indulgent Atruist:

I had a sense of humour, not pretensions, to keep me company. I was sad to see the old bloke go. It would be a sadly more predictable world without him popping in and out of my life as unpredictably as his disappearances to secret locations, whereupon my colleagues who were visited by him at odd moments came to ask me of his whereabouts. I could see them trying to hide their curiosity over him. Even I, his closest friend known about town, couldn't be trusted with the knowledge that they too had a connection to him. It wasn't that they were at fear for their lives, no. The sort of unease that James gave them was much more subtle and inexplicable for many.

Zihuatanejo:

He left an indefinite sense of guilt imbedded deep within your conscience, as if you had done something truly despicable, when you had, in fact, done nothing wrong at all. He was an activist for non-conformism and played delicately at your imperfections in regards to it. "Don't be a sheep," he'd argue, "the world needs variety". He was an idealist, many would think, far too wrapped up in a wonderous and phantasmical world. But then again, when he spoke to you with that quiet conviction in his voice, you could not think you were any more wrong.
Deirdre did not appreciate this. I knew it as much as many of James’ friends. When they found him submerged and blue at the bottom of his pool, blood floating about the massive wound on his neck, it was instinctive that they tore heavy glances at her, standing unmoved, silently by the poolside.

The Self-Indulgent Altruist:

Perhaps it was due to the persistent scrutiny she'd received since she'd arrived from London that she maintained such calm and annoyingly unrevealing posture. I had not known her long enough to detect whether it was the armor of necessity, or her habitual cloak of defense.
I wondered how well I may get to know her in the future.
Her perfectly manicured nails hung like vermilion blood drops on her simple but elegant black dress.

Zihuatanejo:

I had told James one too many times that she was nothing more than a bad idea, and that was my firm belief from the start. It wasn't an unpeculiar thought therefore for her to connected with his death. Although James and his friends would deny it, I knew that she treated him like dirt, gutter trash and nothing more.
My friends, notoriously known for being incessantly quiet when issues of great magnitude fell into their laps, would not agree with me, or even discuss it with me. Instead they hid behind feigned smiles when she passed our way, making it excruciatingly difficult for me to begin to understand her.

The Self-Indulgent Altruist:

I got the impression she was much more used to being adored or detested, rather than understood, anyway.
The heady swirl of nostalgia parted for a wave of indecision which swelled around my shoulders. What happened from hereon depended entirely on me. She was in town for a week, she had murmured distractedly to me sometime before the procession. Would that be sufficiently long a period to uncover the truth?

Zihuatanejo:

“Truth?" my friend Able spat from behind me. "You're thinking about truth again, aren't you?"
I turned around. "No," I lie, "I'm just sad. It's a funeral. Can't I be sad?"
"For fuck's sake, Martin," he releases viciously, before looking around and pulling his voice to a whisper. "Don't give me that crap. I know you, and I know you're still hung up about this whole Deirdre incident. You know, if you ever want to understand what has been happening, you have to open your mind. Come on martin, being that close to James, you of all people should know that. Didn't he tell you not to be so damn narrow minded? Stop wondering about Deirdre and look elsewhere."
I stare at him for a moment and then glance towards Deirdre. "Why are you defending her?"

The Self-Indulgent Altruist:

"Now look what you've turned into- a paranoid man! Willing to suspend his trust in his closest mate!! Why the hell would I be defending that ghastly chic? All I'm saying is that you have definitely crossed some goddamn line between rightful anger and childish obsession."
We both frowned at our feet, half-engulfed by the damp brown earth, in gloomy silence.
Able re-gathered himself, and leaned to me, this time speaking for softly: "For better or worse, James is dead... you can't do much now, man. It's not your duty to avenge his death. Or to look for a person to take that revenge against. I'm just trying to shield you from yourself."
I turned to look him in the eyes, and said, dejectedly: "I don't expect you to understand, okay? I don't expect you to understand what sort of responsibility I feel over this."

Zihuatanejo:

Able turned from me, shaking his head.
For a while I stood there, staring at him walk into the distance.