A mess

Walking on the lit streets, Neville felt dazed and disoriented. He looked down as he walked on autopilot, dodging people when he saw their shadows approaching. He didn't know what he was thinking—he felt like he was thinking too much and nothing at the same time. But he knew how he felt—angry, sad, betrayed, burdened. These unwanted emotions festered within him, each one vying for dominance, leaving him feeling overwhelmed and confused.

As he walked, he found himself at a convenience store. Without much thought, he grabbed two six-packs of beer cans and checked out. The cashier gave him a curious yet concerned look, but Neville ignored it, too consumed by his inner turmoil to care. He hailed a cab and gave the driver his address, sinking into the back seat and watching as the buildings sped by in a blur.

When he finally got home, he didn't bother turning on the lights. The darkness felt fitting for the mood. He sat on the floor, his back leaning against the bed, and opened a beer can. The cold bitter liquid slid down his throat, but it did nothing to numb his unwanted feelings. He chugged it down, hoping for some relief, but it never came.

"Tsk... this isn't going to help... I'll probably wake up feeling shitty," he thought bitterly. The realization hit him hard. He knew that drowning his sorrows in alcohol was a temporary escape, one that would only leave him feeling worse in the morning while doing nothing to solve his emotions. But the temptation was strong.

The weight of his responsibilities, the expectations placed upon him, and the unresolved emotions from his past all pressed down on him.

Neville's mind drifted back to the conversation with his mother and Evelyn. The words they exchanged echoed in his head, each one a reminder of the pain and anger he carried.

He knew he shouldn't bear responsibility for others' actions, that was the logical thing to do, but it was difficult not to. That's how he was raised, or perhaps hardwired. Every day, the same hymn for him to carry the burdens of others as the oldest son in the family. To be the strong, dependable one.

He opened another beer can, but before he could take a sip, he paused. A memory flashed before his eyes—his father's stern face, his mother's cold eyes, and the lessons they had drilled into him. "An ideal man, more so the eldest, should not be emotional, be responsible, do not be petty, be ready to sacrifice." The words rang hollow now, it had lost all meaning to him, his father died and left debt on him and his mother a traitor.

They had no place telling him how to be or not, but they had shaped him, molded him into the man he was.

He thought; shouldn't bad people have the best idea to what good is?

"Tsk!" He got angrier, crushing the can in his hand slightly, spilling some of its contents. He was stuck at a crossroads—succumb to the rage boiling inside him or adhere to the teachings that had been ingrained in him since childhood cause he didn'twant to be anythinglike his parents. The thought of ignoring all those teachings terrified him. Who was he if not the ideal man they had taught him to be? He was afraid to lose his identity.

With a sigh, Neville stood up and poured the remainder of the beer into the sink. He stashed the remaining cans on the kitchen countertop, knowing that drinking wouldn't solve anything. He took a wet cloth and wiped the spilled beer on the floor.

He took a long, hot shower, letting the water wash away the grime and the remnants of his emotional turmoil. As he stood under the spray, hearing the water drip, he started calming down. But the struggle was far from over. The conflicting emotions, the sense of responsibility, and the fear of losing his identity all swirled in his mind, making it a chaotic mess.

After the shower, Neville felt a bit calmer, though he still couldn't accept his feelings, and the awful thoughts about the past lingered. He climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. The darkness of the room felt calming, but it couldn't completely soothe the chaos of emotions inside him. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he would ever find peace.

*********************************

Ophelia sat in her elegantly furnished living room. She wore a long green silk dress that shimmered with her every movement. She was seated on a plush couch, a small table separating her from the woman opposite her.

The woman, Moira, had short grey hair streaked with black, held in place by a delicate hair clip at the side of her head. Her purple eyes, partially shielded by her drooping eyelids, gave her an air of mystery. Thin brows framed her small nose, which led to two lines that framed her lips. She exuded an elegant, mature aura, sitting cross-legged in a long black night dress.

"His death, was it your doing?" asked Ophelia, her voice steady but laced with tension.

"Not even a 'how are you, Mother?'" Moira replied, her tone slightly hurt. Ophelia remained quiet, her gaze unwavering.

Moira sighed, her expression softening slightly. "If I wanted him dead, he would've died a long time ago. I wanted him to despair and agonize, watching everything he cherished slip away while being powerless to do anything about it."

"So it wasn't you... then who?" Ophelia pressed.

"He had many enemies, as we do. And due to our fallout, he didn't have as much resource or protection," Moira shrugged, her indifference clear.

"Even if we had an internal war between you and him, that man was cunning and cautious. He wouldn't let himself be in a dangerous situation," Ophelia insisted.

"Why do you care? You weren't close," Moira countered.

"Someone killed a Blaire without leaving traces to be tracked, that's enough reason for concern... we couldbe next" Ophelia stated, her face cold and determined.

"What about the driver?" Moira asked.

"He was the first to be investigated, but his background was unimpressive. He's clean," Ophelia replied.

"And we still haven't found the other person's body?" Moira inquired.

"Yes, only Edward's body was found, the lower half charred and the top half somewhat intact," Ophelia confirmed.

"She's a prime suspect then..." Moira mused.

"Mom... Do you really know nothing about that woman?" Ophelia asked, her gaze scrutinizing.

Moira sighed, conceding with a defeated smile. "You know me well. That young lady is a recent graduate who worked as his secretary. Though at first she was just an intern, but due to her face she got his attention and consequently a promotion to his secretary..."

"Can we assume she was approached by our enemies and coerced to seduce him?" Ophelia asked.

"Maybe," Moira replied nonchalantly.

"But that's why you bought Mosby's company, isn't it?" Ophelia asked, her tone accusatory.

"Ohhh... You thought I wouldn't know? Fufu~ don't underestimate your mother," Moira said with a smile.

"They have dirty connections which we can leverage to control that company as well as have an upper hand on small influencers and small politicians," Ophelia explained.

"How ambitious you are..." Moira complimented, a hint of admiration in her voice.

" We have to protect ourselves..." said Ophelia.