I've only been to this place once before, but I didn't eat the fruits last time. They are good, especially the grapes. A price means everything can be good, and succulent... but consumable with weaker teeth. Still... the audacity of him. He said that I would be welcomed here, like family, like a sibling, all those years ago. Betrayal is in his nature - HIM, a man I thought I once understood. Those lights are brighter than they ever were, and those paintings look illuminated by its glow. All those years ago... 33, to be exact... reassurance... easy for a man who has everything.

(Had).

Promises are empty here. Fucking rich people, man. I know now, far clearer than when I was a simple human in their 30's, that when a person (man - sex plays a role in a world catered for just one). What was I saying? Oh yes, when a MAN has everything, people with nothing don't exist.

Here they are... The Braithwaite Bunch.

Suckling on daddy's icy teat - dumping their individual narcissism on his name. Look at the state of them. They look like they are about to board a train in a fucking Agatha Christie novel. The mysterious rich person trope - 4 fold. They won't remember my name. Bobby, Samantha, Blue and Tarquin, I remember theirs. It's hard to recall what year Mr Braithwaite had his stroke, but looking at these names I could muster a near accurate guess. Looking at them... perhaps he had more than one.

'Thank you so much for being here'.

That was Bobby, he adores calling people by their proper name - not me. I changed his nappy. I gave them all 20 bucks every year for their birthday's. That's 80 a year, mate! Adds up, be absent, but give them money. What's that to a person like that - what's that to a person like me. I can tell you who noticed that money the most. Not him. He doesn't remember me, neither will those other three sniveling conceited swines. This wine is rank-smelling. I'll put it down, think I would like to be sober for this. But then... I haven't been sober all my life - stay sedated - stay asleep... that's what they want.

This guy again.

'Let us pray'.

I can't here him, his voice blurts out nothing but empty puffs of air. In the distance - out there - can't you see!?

A figure. Their hands in their pockets and their head arched down. They look like... ... their hat covers their features. An old-timey hat, I think. That mist is deceiving. It's not windy out there, for the most part, but... but... that mist is deceiving.

Oh look who it is.

(Blue).

'Hi, Blue', I say.

She looks at me blankly, naturally. Wow, oh wow. That's rude.

You realise you fucking name is a color!?

Again - surely you saw that?? That mist - again. The hatted figure, their eyes glow pale and penetrative through the whirling clouds. Its so still. The wind is heavier now.

Look - I know you see that. That Knife. It dangles fruitfully next to the uncut cake. Teasing, I'll get there.

I want to cut... 4 fold.

The dynamic duo.

Samantha and Tarquin picking at the assortment of fruit on display. They are fussy - way more fussy than me. God's alive!

I hate them. They must be fit... carrying all that heavy jewelry.

How much money have they spent on diamonds plucked from the ground by bleeding fingers? How much of that money went to the bleeding fingers?

Neither of them have looked this way. They know somebody is here though, but they just can't exercise the small amount of unselfishness to meander this way.

Look at that cake - I'll eat that after.

Headlight's are beaming in the driveway... igniting the room with frenzied light. I can't really see now. Don't want to make these frown marks worse. But, who the fuck is being so rude!?

The room is bright. I don't like it this bright. The light's were soft before - the light's were perfect.

Finally! There's that softness... again. Look at the four brats. They didn't even notice. Plucking away fussily at their fruits, agitating for the teat's inheritance. They look... villainous. The knife is still there, unmoved.

No... what the hell! The figure... it's closer now. Those eyes - they irradiate the room. Its arms... hands, I mean. They aren't in their pockets. They are... elsewhere... somewhere - everything has to be somewhere?

What's that feeling!? Oh, fuck... the air feels thin! Who strained the air? This floor is... is this floor... the sodden ground - the depleted life.

I wonder who can see me now...

HEY... WHO TURNED OUT THE LIGHTS!?

I can't see a thing. I blink, but the darkness knows no bounds. Am I on my knees? No... my back!? The words from my mouth aren't making sound, but I can feel something inside it... seeping out. I can feel it - a feeling... like never before.

A feeling like never again.

No power here, empty and unforgiving. Clank and barrel, and bosh and rumble... my ears aren't making sense - my mouth feels full with whip cream - my eyes are sore. I need power -

Power

Power

Power

Power

No.

The room is a constant - I see no light from within.

Those eyes... I see two glowing eyes. Glowing with pale ferocity.

Pale, envious, lonely, capital, hereditary, conflict.

Why isn't the room bright anymore? The room used to be lit with the eyes, but now all I see are pale discrimination's - all I feel is hot and cold - I only feel this way... every single day.

I don't know who did this, but it's still here. I don't understand the origin, but it is a testament older than love.

Light!! But no power.

The four are still here. The room isn't empty, but I inhabit its floor. Trodden on, they can see me. The knife. It resides next to the cake, but I won't have a piece.

POWER.

The lights are on, but no one's home.