1 A less than ideal situation

"To live you must be born; to rebirth you must die."

Morbidities were the incandescent luxuries of the privileged: a brilliant motto during banquets and balls. His mother bore them no mind: personally, she preferred the way her flowers sway and her china match the ambiance. That day simple crows perched purposefully on their finely brushed branches, ready to take flight into the blank, cloudy expanse.

Dramatic. Her husband constantly (yet fondly) commented on their unnecessary extravagance. Their ceilings too high, the gold shimmered too brightly, the paintings of notable cherubs were silly. If the tea was too sweet, if the expressions were too fabricated, it was only just a matter of family dramatics to him.

Sure, her side of the family held the more... eccentric population but does that not also mean she can read the truths within lies and the reality within drama?

So when her son cast his eyes at the whirlpool in his tea she finally read the genuine from the appearance.

"Yes, that is the general concept of such but there is no such theory of rebirth." She could humour his curiosities if it aided his mind.

Conversation during their Saturday tea was not uncommon but ever since the funerals grew more frequent and the political discussions during evening dinners began to become history a fog hung over their interactions. What if She was listening.

"Yes and no, mother," he began, stretching his legs and stepping from the circular table. He paused as he stood, just like his speech before deciding to stand once again, silent like a butterfly.

The weather was insignificant - dreary but the sun still shone through tiny pockets in the clouds. Pane-glassed windows that were on par to cathedrals painted the polished oak floor in watercolours that spilled dangerously towards the little table; she almost warned her son not to step any further, a small smile graced her pink lips, as if he would ever be reckless enough to stain his clothing.

"There have been no official recordings of rebirths, no?" She prompted, lifting her tiny cup to her lips and raising a pale eyebrow.

"Ah no, not literally, mother," he humoured as he struck a steady stride, step after step into the puddle, his black-clad figure absorbing the arrays of pinks and blues that painted his skin and hair. He looked like an ornate statue within their vineyard. "Figuratively."

"Oh?" Like starting a new: shaving one's head, burning old school books. Did he desire a new wardrobe? The neutral tones were rather dull - life, however, was rather dull since She rose through the ranks. "And, if I may, you are reflecting upon yourself? Do you desire a new beginning?" She bowed her head and huffed scornfully - a fitting conversation since the daisies have finally bloomed and Easter runs near.

"Yes." He pushed the tall, palette open, his soft fingers lingering. An old glass doorway to a dainty little balcony - removed in the 1940s to prevent any attraction from any bomber planes above. Their blackout curtains too were removed to celebrate the success and men coming back home.

She patted away the moisture from her lips, red staining the corners just like it stained the rim of her tea cup. The raven was to fly into the creamy red lipstick instead of the blank white. Her crystal heel rhythmically tapped against the hard floor, imitating the tick of a clock. She stopped. She stood. She walked. She paused before the watercolour spill would reflect a kaleidoscope off her shoes (or where it would be had the window stayed shut). " What else is there? Born to live..."

"Die to rebirth," he finished, stepping onto the window sill with his feet firmly planted shoulders length apart. She saw how his fingers latched onto the sides of the wall, she saw how he basked in the gold parting of the clouds like he always did as a small child.

She also saw how his fingers danced too lightly and she also saw his shoulder drop - even so marginally - as the wind carded it's fingers through his hair, just as she had done during his youth. It almost felt like life before it all jolted horribly askew. If only she squinted harder.

Yet the lump in her throat restricted her airflow and vines grew from the floor and around her legs. Her voice was faint, "Whatever do you mean, dear?"

"Exactly what I said." He was not required to turn his head for her to hear the smirk in his voice. And there the raven leapt from his branch, though his wings disobeyed.

A slithering chill ran down her spine, she wanted to run yet she was unable to, a manicured hand clamped over her mouth trailing the last deeply coloured butterfly. All that was left was the bright sun prickling her skin and the dull ache in the balls of her feet.

All that was left was her and her husband.

Her son was no more.

Her voice grew hoarse, her eyes watered, clinging onto the purple butterflies that emerged from under the window batting their wings as if disturbed from their peaceful glory. Strong arms wrapped around as her shock banged against the walls and faded out the window. 

"He's gone now, it's too late."

The empty worads rung like a bell as she hazily slumped her writhing into the warm embrace.

The whirlpool in the tea slowed to a halt, cold and unattended to.