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[attr="id","sybariscol"]JULIUS KINGSTON

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[attr="id","sybariscol"]I USED TO TRUST THE MEDIA TO TELL ME THE TRUTH

Curiosity killed the cat, or say they say. [break][break]

It had certainly killed his sister, though she’d been much more of a dog than a cat in terms of personality, and the satisfaction hadn’t quite brought her back from the dead. Well, since her story didn’t run at all there really wasn’t much satisfaction, he supposed. Even in the afterlife. Or heaven. Though, knowing the pranks she’d pulled, it was most certainly hell.[break][break]

Nothing at all had brought her back. Not tears, not desperation.[break][break]

In this stratum, all is temporary, or so said great philosopher Morgan Oswald.[break][break]

Did he ever hear the one about the cat being brought back, though? Wasn’t that the important question here? Was that the motivation necromancers used for their work? Yes, it must be. The imagery was simply too hilarious to not be that.[break][break]

It’s been five days and Julius still hears his parents crying. But why do they cry so much? It’s a process of overcoming grief someone had told him. But all grief was made better by action and only action. What would crying do?[break][break]

It would be as useful as satisfaction to the dead cat.[break][break]

And if there was nothing you could do, was there any need to feel frustration? The incident had already been locked away. Covered in a pile of jokes, lies, and cleverly dodged questions, a pile of easy smiles and a lot (a lot) of cigarettes.[break][break]

What sister?[break][break]

[attr="id","sybariscol"]WHAT YOU CAN AND CAN'T DO -- TELL ME WHO MAKES UP THESE RULES?

The university sent him a letter-- continuous absences followed up by failing grades were beneath their standard for education.[break][break]

That was okay. What they taught was beneath his thirst for knowledge anyway.[break][break]

[attr="id","sybariscol"]THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE. THINGS AREN'T EVER AS THEY SEEM

Was he going to be a journalist and follow in the footsteps of his sister? People started asking bolder questions after a year or so had passed. A year was apparently the standard period of recovery. It was enough time to relive, to forgive and to forget. Hah. The joke was on them. He’d only forgotten it. Reliving it was too painful. And forgiveness was way higher than his current moral ground.[break][break]

His sister was capable of forgiveness. But his sister was dead.
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And for that very reason, there was no way he’d follow her footsteps. The fiery depths of hell could wait a few more decades before claiming its own, thank you very much.[break][break]

But he adored his sister. Admired, loved, respected. All the fancy words he doesn’t toss around as easily anymore, for fear of them getting attached to yet another temporary figment of the outer strata (thank you, Oswald!). But he’d hung on every word she’d said. And one word, in particular, hung around long after her body had left the noose:[break][break]

Truth.