ODE TO THE MURDERED, bonten

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    10:00pm under tokyo's night meant shallow breeze, grey turned sidewalks and cold uncouth temperature stinging skins. when you let out a plume of smoke through your nose, Marise gives you a glance, lips parting and telling you to pull your jacket closer to your body and zip up the zipper. you followed his instructions without any complaints.

    10:26pm meant two siblings vandalizing tattoos at the side of an inhabited building whose walls withered with time, moss and vineries. milk-colored walls peeling slightly as Marise looked for a perfect side where you can paint.

    10:45pm and you were leaning against a small pole, legs crossed as you hugged it towards your chest; watching your brother from the back, the hissing of the spray flooding your ears. you hummed ones, lifting the open can of coke towards your lips.

    "how's this?" your brother calls over his shoulder, voice muffled through the mask.

you lift your gaze towards the wall. silence encased the space between the two of you, after another ten seconds you were standing, slipping the mask over your face and approaching Marise.

    you lift your hand towards him, signaling to give the spray to you.

    your brother watches as you finish up his work, drawing over messy lines and adding a few more strokes. your motivation started kicking, inspiration barreling down the back of your mind like a flood. Marise could see it in your eyes, the weaves of different stars that make up the constellation within your eyes. the artist within you flowered and bloomed and metamorphosed, he smiles.

    after a few minutes, you lean back and examine the art—a wildflower butterfly stares back at you. the same one like from this morning sits on the once empty wall in front of you, made of ichor lines brushed and beautiful, stagnant and poignant.

    "done," you rasp after a while. your brother lets out an awe, lifting his hand to touch the ink on his wrist; Marise's tattoo looked a lot better when you painted it on the wall than he did.

    "that's so good." he praises, you tried to hide the smile that wants to plague your lips.

"really." his voice grew softer, he planted his hand on your hair again and said, "if you ever decided to continue doing art, i'll definitely be the first person to be there, whenever your art is displayed on an exhibit or museum, it doesn't matter where. i am willing to cancel my plans on the spot and be the first person to see your masterpieces, maybe boast a little bit in the crowds."

    "Marise," he rubs his thumb just below your eyes affectionately, grinning proudly that your heart soared and fluttered with your brother's promise.

    a promise that completely vanished six months after; a week before Marise's birthday when he appeared on the news.

    11:05 am on a sunday meant seeing marmalade-laden burnt toasts, a perfectly cut & cooked sunny-side egg and a glass of water at your side of the dinner table. you shovel a piece of egg into your cheek and grab the glass opting to watch the television.

    'they found a body near the riverbank' you remember hearing from the television that day when you first opened it on the news channel, 'a body of an eighteen year old that had been wasted and eaten partly by dogs.' you couldn't believe your ears when the words spilled out of the screen like heavy, ugly tar. your mind is a mess of an incoherent hurricane.

   Marise is on the news? you murmur. just a week before his birthday, you had planned his celebration the entire night yesterday but stopped shortly when your older brother didn't go back home the night before. ( heaven became selfish, deciding that they wanted their missing angel back. )