The Socrates Cup

[Espi]

He gazed, slightly teary-eyed as he gazed at a small Polaroid photograph. She smiled back at him, through over a lifetime's worth of history long since forgotten, history whitewashed like a canvas covered in tears, history that didn't have to be. But he was getting ahead of himself.

He'd never been a rich man. Passion-pursuits were rarely lucrative. He never quite starved, but he often had a part-time job while he worked on his real love. She had understood; she worked a menial position, but her real passion was music; she played beautiful music, and she wrote lovely pieces. And she was happy.

Never published any compositions, though. Her love, her passion, was lost forever.

His hand trembled as fury like a tensed muscle, like a crushing vise, like the hatred in a scorned lover's eyes, raged through his arm and he nearly crumpled the photo. He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and set the photo on the nightstand. They had taken her, and now they were gone too, like dust in the wind.

He had lost so much. He didn't know what he had until he'd lost it. Uncountable beauties, his beloved, the one who meant the most in his life after all this time, after his parents, after his other loved ones distanced from him because he couldn't get over it. How could he? There was so much to mourn. A lifetime of sorrow.

No more.

Standing up, he stepped into the small closet and began rifling through clothes long unworn and knickknacks long lost. He needed something.

--

"You in there, sir?"

Kurt stood outside the door of the residence in the dim light, looking perplexed. The rent had been late, and Kurt's attempts to contact the tenant had seemingly failed. So he took to his own measure, trying to arrange a meeting with the tenant. No response. He began to suspect that the tenant was avoiding him. So he paid the home a visit.

The knocker received no response, but it wasn't like Kurt couldn't get into his own housing. He fumbled his key into the lock, and pushed the door open. Immediately, the most godawful smell hit Kurt in the face, making him gag in disgust.

The apartment was filthy. Dishes, laundry, grime everywhere, dust settled on everything. The blinds were drawn shut. In the doorway, a chair lay overturned. He stepped further into the residence, and winced further as the smell grew stronger.

He looked around. No sign of, well, anyone in days, even weeks. Kurt steadied his breathing. He already knew what he'd found. As he moved into the apartment's bedroom, Kurt confirmed those suspicions.

Derek Spencer, dead for as long as a few weeks, hung rotting by the throat a foot off the ground in the corner of the room.

Kurt's eyes widened and he fled.