The Rest is Silence|(Chase) FINISHED

[hamlet]

The gravestone was cold against his back, as was everything in this godforsaken place. He sat against the large tombstone, a mini tower of a cross, about 5 feet tall. His eyes gazed at the cloud covered sky, the light slowly fading with the coming of dusk. The clouds seem to spin, and the ground did too. Even without the influence of alcohol, he would feel no different. His world spun, and spun, and he could only...sit.

He rolled to the side slightly, a pale hand touching the tombstone, his cheek against it. Still cold. Always cold. The stone was engraved with the name "Hamlet Chandler Sr." His grey eyes red and moist, he whispered to the grave, "How can you be silent now, father?"

His expression buckled and he swallowed the lump in his throat. "Speak, speak, speak," His voice broke within his whisper."Why won't you speak?" Nothing but silence. The silence was almost suffocating, like thick, humid air from a rainfall. He'd seen his father's spirit, in his dreams, when he cuts off the lights at night. He'd seen it so often, he could no longer brush it off as a figment of his imagination. Here he was, pretending to be crazy, but lately, he was beginning to believe it. Maybe he was seeing things. His father was dead, still, cold, silent. Not restless, not asking for revenge. Silent. And Harry was without guidance.

His hand closed into a fist and he closed his eyes tightly, grimacing in emotional agony. His world still spun, even with his eyes closed. "Why are you doing this to me? What? What am I supposed to do?" Sit while the sun sets. The breeze hit his skin, and to him, it was like a sign to give up. The answers would not come, they never would. And while he mourns the lost of his father, his mother and uncle are enjoying the money he left behind. He could do nothing. He moved so his back was against he tombstone again, his head resting on it as well.

How long would it be before he found himself six feet under? He couldn't help but wonder. All of the good that his father did was washed away by a greedy family. His life, his honor, all of the prestige was buried with the heavy dirt that his rotting body now rested in. The same thing would happen to Harry, in due time. Maybe it wasn't his father's spirit he kept seeing. Maybe it was Death itself calling for him.

Or maybe he really was crazy.

"Possibilities, possibilities," he whispered to himself, grabbing the neck of a beer bottle he had with him. He stood up unsteadily, swaying a bit. Tilting his head back, he drank the last of the bottle. He staggered a bit in no particular direction, stopping when he thought he saw someone. It would be just his luck for press to be lurking around here, he thought, as if he was the only one obligated to visit the cemetery.

He grinned, humorlessly, with an eye on this person. "Every step I take, move I make, people are watching me, huh?" He wasn't sure if the guy was even watching him, or what he was even doing. But his mind wasn't exactly thinking straight either, especially when he found himself randomly quoting Sting. Where the heck did that come from. He rolled his eyes dramatically, stepping closer. "God, I can't catch a break. Another newspaper reader? Want to know the Chandler family drama? Is that it?"

[chase]

Something about the coming nightfall and the clouds hanging low overhead made the cemetery seem much more menacing than it usually did. Chase had visited Green-Wood a few times over the past couple of months, but this time, the place was so much more somber.

Fortunately, it was also deserted, to all appearances. Chase was not in the mood to speak to anyone. He knew he was angsting; his grief was getting the best of him yet again. He told himself that it could not be helped. He had cared deeply for Lenore, perhaps too deeply. Emotions tended to be shallow in him; he had never felt anything as deep as what he had felt for Lenore. Anyone else would have called the feeling "love," but Chase refused to. Using that word, even just thinking about it, made the pain twice, even thrice as strong.

He had kept in touch with Lenore's family, though seeing them also hurt him. They had always been close; Lenore's parents had probably expected them to marry. Even Chase had considered proposing to Lenore, several times in fact. The match would have been perfect, or at least, close enough for love. Now, he would not have that chance. He was not entirely sure that he would ever feel that deep a connection again. He was not even sure that he would ever stop grieving for Lenore.

Chase clutched the flowers in his hands and headed straight for the grave. He knew exactly where it was now; his feet had memorized each step, and he was certain that he could have found his way even in complete darkness. As he walked, he looked around, watching for any living figures that might be around to observe him. The cemetery at dusk was the stuff of dreamscapes, or perhaps of nightmares; Chase could not be certain which was the case.

Once he was sure he was alone, he let loose the sigh he had been holding in for what now seemed like hours. Here, in the solitude of the darkening graveyard, he could finally be alone with his thoughts, without fear of scaring anyone away or of being judged. He could talk to Lenore and pretend she could hear. He could even cry, if he felt he needed to.

Chase was a few rows away from Lenore's grave- the stone angel was actually visible from where he was- when a figure appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, as Chase had not been paying enough attention to see where the person had actually come from. Instead of stopping to see who it was, Chase continued on, widening his path to avoid the figure, hoping to avert the possibility of communicating with him or her. He did not act quickly enough; the figure, which turned out to be a young, somewhat drunken male, caught up to him and addressed him in a suspicious-sounding tone.

"Newspaper reader"? "Chandler family drama"? The man's words made very little sense to Chase, partly because Chase had been doing his best to ignore him. Besides, the man was clearly three sheets to the wind, if not plowing along at full sail.

"Sorry, I think you've got the wrong guy or something," Chase said, barely looking the guy in the eye. "I don't know any Chandlers, and I haven't read the newspaper much lately. It's not as interesting when they're writing about you."

Lenore's death had made the New York Times headline a month earlier, and Chase had been named as a witness or suspect or something- he had barely looked over the article and could not remember what it had said exactly. He had lived the event, anyway; reading about it was sort of useless, and only served to awaken more painful memories of Lenore.

"Anyway, um, have a good night." Chase clutched his flowers a little more tightly and began to walk away with uncertain steps. Leaving the man alone in his current condition was probably a bad idea. Still, it was not as if Chase was the man's keeper. He looked old enough to take care of himself.

[hamlet]

"Sorry, I think you've got the wrong guy or something,"

Harry grinned, amused, the clear avoidance in his tone was sharp to the bone. Yet the clouds in the sky did not budge, much like the cloudiness in Harry's brooding and muddled mind. No, no, no, this was amusing. Here was a man, a normal average looking man, here in the cemetery, no doubt having his own problems and sorrows, looking at him with dark eyes...with...contempt? Was it...pity? Anger? What?

"I don't know any Chandlers, and I haven't read the newspaper much lately. It's not as interesting when they're writing about you."

Harry stifled a laugh, stepping forward and pausing, trying to gain his balance. His limbs felt like loose strings, and it was a familiar...safe...feeling.

"Wrong, wrong, wrong...no, what's wrong is you saying you're the wrong person because there is no other person here but the right person. But you might be the wrong right person. Or the right wrong person......whatever." He shook his head, hearing the slight slur in his words.

"Anyway. One thing you're right about is that it is less interesting when they're writing about me because I...ha, well...look at me." He laughed. "Why write about me when they have so many, many interesting characters in this city. Dead and alive." He looked around the grave yard as if the dead would start coming up from their graves clambering for an interview.

"Anyway, um, have a good night."

"No, see that..." He approached him as quickly as he could without falling over. "...that is wrong. A night is neither good or bad. Its just a state of time, isn't it? How can we put value on a time of day...or night, rather? Makes no sense." Harry stepped in front of him, in his path, walking backwards. " Its not the night that's good. It's you, or me, or you know...someone else." He nodded towards the flowers he was holding. "Who's the someone else, hm?"

Then he nearly tripped over his footing and stopped himself before he actually did fall over.

[chase]

With a small sigh, Chase turned to the drunk fellow and gave him his full attention; or, at least, the portion of his attention that was not constantly occupied by Lenore. The man was in pieces, and Chase almost felt sorry for him. Then again, what sort of person let themselves get completely trashed in a cemetery, or visited a cemetery while completely trashed? It was disrespectful to the dead.

Moreover, the man had completely misunderstood Chase's statement regarding the newspaper. He had taken the "you" as pertaining to him personally, when Chase had meant it in a far more general sense. Chase had meant that newspaper articles were less interesting when one was the subject of them, as Chase had been; but this man had either missed that or was just too far gone to care.

The gibberish that followed about the right or wrong person supported the latter conclusion. The man's words had made absolutely no sense to Chase, though Chase was sure they made perfect sense to the man. Chase could relate to being drunk- he had been drowning his sorrows with alcohol lately- but still, being on the receiving end of a drunken rampage, especially in the middle of a deserted cemetery at dusk, was odd, to say the least.

Chase was not sure how to respond to the man, or if he should respond at all. Perhaps he expected an answer, or perhaps he would not even notice if Chase ignored the confusing statements. Chase had no way of knowing what the outcome would be. At any rate, it appeared that this man was intent on sticking with him. Chase began to reply, just as the man nearly fell over himself.

"I suppose you're right," Chase mused. "It's not the night itself that's good, but the people and things that are involved with it." Did that make sense? Chase was far too sober to be able to hold a meaningful conversation with this guy. He was starting to wish he'd tossed back a few drinks himself.

"The someone else? Oh." Chase looked down at the flowers. "My girlfriend. Or my ex-girlfriend. Not that we broke up, she passed away. So I guess that makes her my es, since we're not dating anymore." He frowned. Was he beginning to ramble again? As much as he had enjoyed speaking to Vivian, the conversation had been mostly awkward, and he did not really feel like experiencing that much awkwardness again, in the same general place as well.

"Anyway... what brings you here?" Chase asked, fully aware that he would probably not get a straight answer. That was fine; he was just trying to be polite anyway.

[hamlet]

"I suppose you're right. It's not the night itself that's good, but the people and things that are involved with it."

Harry stood back and tilted his head, his eyes glossed over but displaying some moment of alertness. As if for that moment, the man's response jolted his cognitive functions, started them churning through the murkiness of the alcohol. A slight moment of soberness. In his own mind, his drunken tangents were always done to fit some sort of role he's invented for himself. Blabbering, incoherent, nonsense. Complete nonsense. But even when he put on this act for his family and coworkers, there was always a reason for the madness. But here, now, thinking about his father...there was no reason, the line between crazy and acting was becoming foggy, even for him. Did he actually think that his father wanted to speak with him? That his spirit was alive somewhere?

No, the alcohol was an excuse...

The words the man spoke went in and out of his consciousness. He caught somethings and not others. "My girlfriend. Or my ex-girlfriend. Not that we broke up, she passed away. So I guess that makes her my ex, since we're not dating anymore. Anyway... what brings you here?"

...the alcohol was a naked, revealing, and vulnerable excuse towards something he didn't want to admit. He was falling apart. In every way.

Pushing the sobering thoughts back into the muddy effects of the buzz, he slowly grinned. He approached and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "Thank you. Now I need to know you're name because well, you just told me something very personal. We can't have an exchange like that without knowing each other's names. I respect you and it's just courtesy. Plain courtesy. My father, he used to really push that on me, ha!" He cleared his throat and deepened his voice dramatically. " 'Be polite young man.' "

The memory was vivid and it hurt.

"The man who created Hamlet Enterprises," He said, walking a few paces to a random tombstone and leaning on it. "Who am I here for? Well," He extended a hand out to the grave he just left, the tall cross of a tombstone a few feet away. "There he is. My father," He dropped his hand, and it fell limply on his thigh as he gazed lazily at the grave, his expression also dropping. "The best man I've ever known," He whispered, his voice unsteady.

He looked over at the man he just met. "I'm not doing a good job of making him proud am I?" He shook his head. Then, he buried his head in his hands for a moment before running his hands over his lengthy brown hair.

"....I'm really sorry about your ex. Death has a way of catching people." He swallowed hard at his own words, already feeling the tingling on the back of his neck, as if his father would come from behind and drag him into a grave. He hugged himself and rocked slightly, nervous because of it. "When did she die?" He asked looking up at the man, trying to get his mind off of his own rambling and giving the other guy a chance to speak.

[chase]

The man seemed to suffer a few moments of clarity, even through the effects of his obvious drunkenness. Was there something about what Chase had said that had caused that? Chase had no way of knowing. At least the man was rambling less and making more sense. The shoulder pat was disconcerting, but the man followed it with a brief story of his father. Chase had certainly heard the name "Hamlet Enterprises" thrown around before, and he had the feeling that it carried some sort of weight, but he could not say for sure what exactly the company did.

Chase had no idea how to respond to the man's seemingly, and hopefully, rhetorical question about having made his father proud. Every father was different, so really, there was no telling what would have made the man proud. Perhaps he had frowned on drinking, or maybe he had viewed alcoholism as a personal strength. There really were all kinds of people in the world. And out of the world, but that was beside the point. Or maybe it wasn't. Was Chase drunk too, off grief?

Saying something positive was always the best thing to do, so Chase decided to go with that option. Hopefully, the man would not think Chase was patronizing him, although he kind of was. "I'm sure your father would be proud of you," Chase offered. "Everyone has their faults, but dads are pretty understanding of that, when it comes to their children, at least."

Chase had a fairly good relationship with his parents. It was nothing notable, but at least he did not hate them. They had been great parents while he was growing up, mostly. Perhaps the best parents were the ones who were never around. "I'm sorry to hear about your father," Chase added, looking toward the cross that marked that father's grave.

He picked at the flowers in his hands a bit as he thought of Lenore. How long had it been? Sometimes it felt as if she had been away for years; at other times, Chase felt as if she had only died hours before. He forced himself to calculate a general time span. "My girlfriend died about three months ago." He could not help wincing at the words. Had it really been that long, or that short? Actually naming a length of time had unsettled him.

Hopefully, the man would not ask about Lenore's cause of death. It was difficult to explain. The medical examiner had come up with the most likely manner of death, blunt-force trauma to her head, though it was impossible to say what exactly had caused it. The young woman's death was generally considered an unsolved murder. The word "murder" generally did not go over well with other people.

Holding the bouquet in one hand, Chase tucked the other into one of his pants pockets. It was a completely automatic nervous habit, much like rocking back and forth on his heels. The man had asked for a name, and Chase was not entirely inclined to give his. Still, the man had mentioned that it was something of a practice or tradition in his family. Chase would not argue with that.

"I'm Chase," he said, untucking the free hand for a moment and extending it to the man. "And you are?" Chase thought the man might have mentioned a name alreadly, but he had already forgotten what it was and how it had come up.

[hamlet]

Harry's slight rocking back and forth, as if the air had gave him a chill, wasn't helping his dizziness much and made him a bit nauseous. So he stopped momentarily as the man talked, staring out into space. He grinned humorlessly when he told him that his father would be proud of him. He didn't respond because he knew the comment was a failed attempt at being comforting. Why did people do that? Why did people often put up their own act of cordialness as a replacement for honesty. It was the kind of thing that made Harry wary about everyone he came across. No one was straight forward, there is always something underneathe the smiles and polite how are you?s and handshakes. That was business, wasn't it? The kind of business that got his father killed.

"I'm sorry to hear about your father,"

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for your loss.

Oh, how often had he heard that one before. Yet, no one was sorry really. Hamlet's body was simply underground, beneath the earth that would simply keep turning. How easily can a heap of flesh be reduced to nothing, within an instant. So fragile, so easily lost that when it does happen, everyone else can just turn their heads in pity. Why couldn't he do it? Why couldn't he forget? Move on, take his legacy and corrupt it like everyone else was doing?

"My girlfriend died about three months ago."

Harry looked up at him then, startled by the answer.

"Wow," he said, his expression a mix of bemusement and slight disbelief. "That's when my father died." He gazed at the sky, thinking, and started counting on his fingers, mouthing the numbers in an inaudible whisper. He swallowed and said, "No, not even three months...no, two months....well, maybe it was three." He laughed. Two or three months was all the time needed for his family to grab that company and do whatever they pleased with it.

"Fickle!" he said, suddenly pushing himself off the tombstone, stumbling a bit forward, and grabbing the man's shoulder momentarily to retrieve his balance. "Fickle is our memory. Just like everything else in this world."

He barely realized the man had said his name. Chase He looked down at the man's outstretch hand for a moment, his reaction delayed.

"Chase," he repeated, finally taking his hand and shaking it firmly. "Pleasure to meet your acquaintance. I apologize for my current state. Rough day...week...whatever." He didn't know why he felt the need to apologize. Habit, he supposed. "I'm Harry Chandler." Letting go of his hand he said, "Better known as the city drunk, randomly ranting to strangers in cemeteries." The comment was said in a snarky, matter-of-fact tone, as if a normal part of his introduction, and not as if he was feeling sorry for himself. He started walking forward slowly, arbitrarily feeling the need to move around.

"Formally known as the heir to Hamlet Enterprises," He continued. "But you know, things change, right? Not that I wanted it anyway...no, no I much rather do more important things. Pick flowers or something." Being with Ophelia. Not obsessing over the prospect of my father being murdered. Now he was rambling. Again. He really needed to stop that.

"So what do you do for a living, Mr. Chase?" He asked.

[chase]

The man did not seem too moved or impressed by the condolences Chase had offered. He had probably heard it all before, several times over. It was the normal, socially acceptable way of responding to the news of a death. Perhaps it had been so overused that it no longer held any significance. Saying "I'm sorry for your loss" was now about as meaningful and touching as asking for a loaf of bread.

He did seem startled by Chase's comment about Lenore, though, and shortly explained why. They had passed away around the same time. The thought was actually sort of comforting to Chase. Not the fact that either of them had died, of course, but the fact that, three or so months later, there was someone still grieving the loss. It sort of condoned Chase's own profound sadness, made him feel that it was okay to still be hanging on after so long.

The man's next words, and the action of touching Chase's shoulder, startled him. "Fickle! Fickle is our memory. Just like everything else in this world."

Chase looked directly at the man, perhaps for the first time- he could not be completely sure that he had or had not made eye contact before. But his words had spoken to something that had been lurking within Chase as well. Hadn't everyone else, except for Lenore's parents, already moved on? Didn't she deserve more time, more grief, more attention than that? But, as the man had said, people were fickle. Life was fickle. That much was obvious; after all, they were standing in a graveyard. Chase wondered if the same phenomenon had occurred with this man's family. Probably, given the way the man had just shouted that thought out like that.

The man then shook Chase's hand with a surprisingly strong grip for someone so heavily intoxicated, and introduced himself as Harry Chandler. That made sense, given the man's earlier references to the name "Chandler." Harry went on to make a self-deprecating comment or two about himself, though his tone was decidedly lacking in humor. He was an heir to a company, it seemed, which made Chase feel a bit outclassed, especially after Harry asked about what Chase did.

"Um, I'm a student, and a teacher's assistant, at NYU." Chase gestured vaguely in the direction of where NYU should have been, assuming that he still had a trustworthy sense of direction despite being so detached. Not that it mattered much anyway; the gesture just gave him something to do with his hands momentarily instead of just clutching the flowers. They probably made an odd scene, Harry with his drunkenness and Chase with his bouquet.

He ventured to comment on the picking-flowers remark, and quickly came to regret the try. "I wouldn't know anything about being an heir, but I always thought it would be kinda important. You know, the power and all." Chase frowned at himself. He probably sounded like a complete idiot, one of those people who learned everything they knew from watching TV. "But I guess that's all glamor and wishful thinking." He shrugged a little carelessly and rocked back and forth on his heels. "Anyway, um, pleased to meet you, Harry."

[hamlet]

"Um, I'm a student, and a teacher's assistant, at NYU."

Harry nodded, the ground beneath him seeming much less solid than it did sometime before as he cautiously took steps forward. A teeter tottering sensation, a struggle to keep balance, and he was familiar with this state. Most of the time he experienced this state alone, where no one can see, not even Ophelia. This state made him numb to his own thoughts. But this man here, he has seen this side of Harry. And now, because of Harry's drunken foolishness, he definitely knew his name. Sure, Chase might have recognized him regardless, but it was better not to confirm any suspicions about if he was the real Harry Chandler.

"I'm a student too, you know," he said. "Constantly learning. Constantly. And it's amazing how you learn things that you wish you hadn't learned. Yes, ignorance is bliss and beneficial for sanity. Teachers didn't tell us that." Harry ranted. He turned around to Chase, noticing he hadn't moved an inch and instead was rocking back and forth on his heals.

Harry looked at him for a moment, blinking with heavy eyelids as Chase talked, swaying slightly on his own two feet. He grinned with a small laugh. The guy seemed anxious. Why wouldn't he? After all, Harry was some random drunk guy. In a cemetery. Of all places. How pathetic was that?

"I wouldn't know anything about being an heir, but I always thought it would be kinda important. You know, the power and all. But I guess that's all glamor and wishful thinking."

His small laugh turned into a full blown one. He walked back towards Chase, and put a hand on his shoulder, his light eyes looking directly into his with unmistakable laziness. "Let me tell you something, Chase," he said. "Not....and I mean not important. The heir thing. Not important." He shook his head as he let go, giving him a slight accidental shove to push himself back into balance on his feet. "You don't want to be an heir. To anything. Though I know plenty of people who'd do anything...to be one. But no. You want to be a student and that's what you are. A student. So be it!"

He smiled broadly, almost uncharacteristically given their heavy conversation. Harry had little to care about in this world now, especially being heir to the company.

"So being a student, what is it you study?" Psychology? Medicine? Just teaching? What? What in this large world would be important enough to spend years of time and money investments? Harry used to remember what it was like. In fact, that's all he knew for a while. Its all he cared about. Now all of that knowledge seemed useless.

[chase]

There was something almost poignant about Harry's thoughts on being a student. Chase took the statement to mean that Harry was not a student per sé, but that one did not have to be taking classes in order to be gaining knowledge. Experience was the best teacher, after all, or something like that. That was what everyone said, right?

Harry responded just as Chase had expected him to on the subject of being an heir, though the motivational-speech part at the end was a bit strange given the tenor of the discussion so far, and the broad grin Harry offered made the moment even more uncomfortably incongruous. Then again, the entire encounter had been pretty bizarre. Chase responded to the words with a weak smile and forced himself to stop rocking back and forth. He would probably wind up falling if he didn't pay attention.

Chase looked at Harry again once he asked about Chase's studies. This was a question Chase dreaded somewhat. Some people were impressed by his field of study, others thought it was boring or had no real purpose, and still others, most people really, had no idea what it was. The question was unavoidable, though, every time, and he seldom could guess what the asker's reaction would be.

"I have a bachelor's degree in classics, and I'm going for my master's," Chase answered, tucking his free hand into his pocket. "I also study Greek and Latin." He shrugged lightly as if none of it was really important. "So, um, what do you do? Other than learning, I mean," Chase asked, just trying to make conversation, and hoping it was not a complicated question.

[hamlet]

Harry smiled at Chase's answer. Why didn't he study that in college? The possibility of studying anything but business never even crossed his mind. Not once. Yet he always felt a pull in the arts, he admired the classics, and loved the skill of acting and performance. That was for certain. "You're amazing," he said, actually quite earnestly, though it might have come off as absent minded drunkenness.

"Sapere aude, my friend. Sapientia et doctrina, sapientia et veritas." He paused and looked shocked for a moment. "Wow, I actually just remembered that. I took a bit of latin myself. Nothing that would enable me to make complete coherent sentences, I can barely do that in English," he laughed a bit.

"And what do I do? Hmm. What do I do? So many ways of approaching such a question. For instance, I am a son, which, contrary to popular belief takes quite a bit of action on my part. I mean, figuring out if my father was murdered makes my list of Things to Do very long." Harry paused. Well, that was certainly a poor choice of words to say to a stranger. He shook his head, waving his hand dismissively. "But without getting into that, I'm a financial consultant, mostly for theater companies trying to stay afloat. It's--"

Suddenly, his voice caught in his throat. Harry thought he saw something in the corner of his eye, a figure, standing motionless some distance behind Chase. Watching.

Watching.

But after a blink, the figure seemed to vanish. Only Harry could see it, if it was actually there. He swallowed hard. "Sorry." He said, staring off in the distance, shaken up by even the prospect of seeing his father's presence. "Sorry, I...I thought I saw something." He lowered his head and buried it in his hands, rubbing his face a bit as if shaking off something internal, something waiting to reveal itself. He looked up again and saw nothing. Walking pass Chase a few steps to get a closer look out in the distance, he still saw nothing.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Chase?" he asked bluntly, but honestly. His voice seemingly far off and distant.

[chase]

For once, Chase received some appreciation for his chosen field. At least, it seemed he had; there was no telling what Harry might have thought of the classics major had he been sober. Chase opted not to wonder too much about that. Things were what they were. Besides, he had now begun to actually like the man somewhat, so he decided he did not want to know.

Harry then rattled off a bit of Latin. Dare to discern. Wisdom and learning, wisdom and truth. Despite being a supposedly "dead" language, Chase encountered Latin often, and was able to translate the words almost automatically. Chase assumed that Harry knew what he was saying, since it did sort of tie into some of their past remarks, but there really was no telling for sure, especially since the man was so wasted at the moment. "That wasn't bad at all," Chase commented in response to Harry's statement about not knowing much Latin.

Chase nodded as Harry spoke about his work. He could relate somewhat to the bit about being a son, though he imagined it must have been much more difficult for Harry, since he had been an heir and since his father had passed away.

What really caught Chase's attention, though, was the mention of murder. He definitely felt bad about feeling this way, but he knew that at some level, meeting another person who may have lost a loved one to murder was mildly comforting. It made him feel as though it had not been some sort of targeted or fated loss, but that it really did happen to other people, and that Chase was not alone in his suffering. The unanswered questions, the confusion, the need for closure- all of those emotions resurfaced in Chase. He clutched the flowers more tightly and forced himself to keep listening to Harry.

The man mentioned being a financial consultant for theater companies before suddenly becoming distracted. Chase frowned for a moment, then turned to look in the direction Harry was gazing. There was nothing there, as far as he could see, but the man's next question offered a bit of insight into what may have happened.

Ghosts? Chase was not sure what he would have called it, but he certainly believed in something. Some presence that was either sent by a higher power to haunt and comfort him, or some projection of his own mind designed to ease the pain. He had never actually seen Lenore since her death, other than in his dreams, but he had felt her presence, or at least imagined that he did. She was everywhere, always tugging at the periphery of his conscious and floating about his subconscious. For him, she had died only in the most physical sense of the word. That was enough.

"I don't know about ghosts exactly. I've never seen one. But I have felt as if someone is watching me, or watching over me. As if Lenore is still here, just out of reach." Chase frowned again. "If that makes any sense."

[hamlet]

Harry stared at the empty space, holding his breath without realizing it, until his eyes got watery.

Father.

He released the breath and blinked the dampness from his eyes as Chase spoke to him. Lowering his head, he tried to compose himself, taking and unsteady step backwards. He knew his father was there, just as Chase said, watching him. Harry just never wanted to admit it--the fact that he was actually entertaining this thought. Wouldn't that make him legitimately crazy? To believe his father's spirit was roaming this world, somehow?

But he did believe. In fact, he was just talking to his father's grave as if he expected it to speak back.

No. Just the alcohol. That's all that was.

No.

No, it wasn't. His father had spoken to him in his dreams, in his nightmares, putting ideas in his head that he wished didn't seem true. Harry rubbed his forehead with his thumb and index finger. The mugginess in his mind from intoxication combined with his sober thoughts made him exhausted, mentally and physically. He turned around to Chase, looking distraught as if he really did see a ghost.

He swallowed and asked, his voice a bit shaken, "How did she die? Was it..." He took slow steps back to Chase in order to meet his eyes, still wobbling a bit off balance. "Was it peaceful at least?" Some part of Harry felt that if he heard Chase's story, this stranger's story, about some sort of silver lining, maybe he could bring logic back to his existence. He could pretend that this nonsense about his uncle killing his father was exactly that... nonsense. And that his father died the way he was supposed to die, and he wasn't robbed.

But even pretending hurt because he knew it was just that...pretending.

It was then he realized he was being incredibly rude. He shook his head, "Forget it, forget it. You don't have to answer that." Somewhat out of exhaustion, he leaned towards him and put a hand on his shoulder and a finger to his chest, poking him a few times as he said, "Your patience amazes me. You know that. Amazing. I'm asking you personal questions and you haven't punched me in the face yet. " He laughed, leaning on Chase for support, losing his footing still and pushing him backwards a bit.

"Oops," he said mid laugh as he backed away from Chase. His laugh was hollow. It was just a way to get his mind off of the image of his father. Standing there. Watching him. He shook his head again. "Yeah, you're a patient guy. It's probably why you seem like you're handling your loss pretty well. Yeah. That's probably it. Because patience is a virtue...but it can also be a vice depending on how you look at it. But in this case, I'm pretty sure its a virtue."

[chase]

There was a brief moment of alarm and horror in Chase's grief-stricken brain as Harry, clearly affected by whatever he had seen, turned to Chase and asked him about Lenore's death. Part of the panic came from the sudden memory of that night, the moment he had learned what had happened, in the middle of a not-too-subtle unofficial interrogation by the police. The vision of Lenore, lying where someone had found her beautiful and broken body, and the funeral, the coagulation of so many fears and so much pain. The force of the memories knocked Chase back physically, and he swayed backward slightly before catching himself.

He hated telling the story, mostly because of those memories and also because of the reactions other people tended to have. It was like a bad episode of a crime procedural, with a cliffhanger ending. Still, despite that, he would have told Harry about it all, as much as the man might have wanted to hear, if Chase had thought for even a moment that hearing it would help either of them. Harry was clearly looking for comfort, perhaps hoping that there was some happy ending to Lenore's tale. But there was none; she had not died peacefully, as far as anyone could tell. The circumstances of her death were still a mystery, but, more than likely, she had died alone, with only the company of her murderer in her last moments. The thought of it made Chase feel sick, and he subconsciously gripped the bouquet in his hands a bit more tightly.

Chase began to sort out a response to Harry that would be both helpful and vague, as quickly as he could manage. Then, fortunately for him, Harry took back the question. Chase was so relieved that he barely minded Harry's poking his chest. He felt bad about feeling so glad that the subject would be left alone. But, as he told himself, it would be for the best.

He responded to Harry's compliments with only a small smile and a nod, and managed to regain his balance once again as he was accidentally pushed backwards. At least he- according to Harry, whose powers of perception were probably hindered by his drinking- seemed to be hiding his grief well. There were other occasions, even right here in this same cemetery, on which he had shown far less self-control. Perhaps his brain knew that two mourning individuals were too much for this evening to handle. "I don't know if I'd call myself 'handling it well.' I feel pretty numb about it now. But I'm glad you think so, I guess."

He shrugged, regarding Harry with a bit of hope. "Maybe you'll find yourself adjusting to it soon, and stop feeling the pain so deeply. We can only take so much pain before we shut down, really."

This was bad advice, and Chase knew it. By ignoring the pain, he was pushing it away, storing it up somewhere where it was festering, growing slowly in scale until it finally reached a critical mass. But, for the moment, he was all right with that. Feeling the pain of the loss was much worse than feeling nothing at all, even temporarily.

[hamlet]

He glanced back over to where he thought he saw his father standing. Nothing.

"I don't know if I'd call myself 'handling it well.' I feel pretty numb about it now. But I'm glad you think so, I guess."


"Numbness," He repeated and grinned. God, would he give anything to feel numb. But even alcohol couldn't provide him with that simple luxury. He looked upon Chase with a bit of skepticism. "Numbness, numbness, how should I know what that even means, Chase? I know nothing about it. And you, you haven't really experienced numbness, have you?" He paused, and sighed. “Of course you have. And not because you said it.” He rose too fingers in a ‘V’ and pointed them towards Chase’s eyes, then his own, then Chase’s again. “I see it.”

He looked upon Chase again, almost in defeat. “How do we get the point where we feel so much of everything that we feel nothing? Or feel so much of nothing that we really feel nothing? Is there a such thing?” He grinned weakly with little humor, shaking and lowering his head.

"Maybe you'll find yourself adjusting to it soon, and stop feeling the pain so deeply. We can only take so much pain before we shut down, really."

“I’m really sorry for pushing you like that,” Harry mumbled slightly and rather suddenly, running his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean it.” He just felt the need to say sorry…for something. Something about entertaining numbness in reaction to his father’s death felt wrong to him. Harry felt completely irrational for thinking this, so he simply…apologized.

Then his brain started making its journey back to the words Chase had just uttered. “Yeah, shutting down.” He nodded. “Computers shut down. They just go on and on, running and running, until…poof. Right? No rhyme or reason to it just a black screen.” All computers, all things run its course eventually. Nothing lasts forever. “And it’s always sudden.” He swallowed hard as a pang of grief hit his chest. He could feel the buzz starting to wane slowly but surely and he could feel the safety net of being drunk starting to fall out from under him. The ground still seemed to teeter totter a bit, but he was thinking. And goodness, how it hurt to think these days.
He was beginning to feel a bit nauseous.

“Adjusting. Tell me,” he tried to bury the sick feeling in his stomach and looked up at Chase. “How long…how long did it take you to adjust?” His brow furrowed, Harry thought that maybe something was wrong with him. I mean, there had to be right? No one else grieved Hamlet Sr. like he did. “A few weeks? Days?”