An overripe lemon.
Sitting on the end of a quivering branch, like an omen. There was something so rude, so infuriating about this particular lemon. How dare it? How dare it sit there which such verve, such confidence? Such garish optimism? Its yellowness deeply offended me on that day, the entire world seemed to be concaving in, it felt like the Earth itself had spun out of orbit, The sinews of my flesh were practically dissociating, my own family tree had wilted and decayed yet this lemon sought to only mock my misery. Such a vile deceiving fruit, so vibrant and appealing only to conceal a sinister bitter reality. I was scowling at this lemon furiously as it hung from a lowly branch on the tree hovering above my uncles casket. As they lowered him into his grave, into the spacious black abyss, the lemon quivered teasingly. I supressed an ill timed giggle, how comical, I thought, if that lemon would tumble in after him, bitter on bitter, fresh fruit on a stale corpse, almost like a kind of crude dressing. The atmosphere of that funeral was far from comical though, although every single eye in sight was dry every expression was sour. I noticed briskly that there were no friends present, many long standing business partners had failed to attend, even uncle John’s own mother had neglected to join us for the event. It would seem queer to an untrained eye yet I , who was familiar with Uncle John’s affairs, or at least I thought I was, knew that every being present had in some regard been mentioned in his will. His notorious will, the root of all our familial troubles, the crux of our financial longevity, the blood line of our futures. Its worth noting that uncle John was highly desired, not because of his looks, he was a squat cruel ugly man, but instead because of his vast amounts of money. It was not uncommon for Uncle John to be seen engaging in rapturous conversations with young women who would cling to the arm of this geriatric pensioneer, exclaiming in loud florid tones, ‘you’re SO funny Johnny!” in desperate bids to get their living rooms redecorated or acquire a new designer handbag. Uncle John did nothing to rebuff or condone these frequent encounters with these women of lowly finances but he clearly enjoyed their simpering attention, when a woman got bored of him or ignored him he affronted them with a stale and bitter gaze that intended to wound, he would often finish with a crude comment and we would leave wherever we were hurriedly. All in all Uncle John was reasonably well respected, not liked, but revered in our village. That’s why the news was so shocking that he was murdered. I remember sitting with him in the hospital, his ring finger quivering as he pointed to me, an ill-disguised fury in his face, try to make out words that his slack jaw would not allow. How I loved him how I hated him, sitting by his hospital bed I looked into his milky eyes and I was confronted with the most painful reality. I wanted him to die. I loved him so violently it scared me, the power he had over me was all encompassing, I knew If he fell I would rise. The Doctors said it was poison, maybe someone slipped it into his afternoon tea or laced it into his prune juice one night. It could have been anyone really. Anyone. My thoughts were quickly recaptured to the dull atrocity that was the eulogy’s, uncle John’s brother Sammy, was butchering the speech he had prepared. And now I’m looking at his shaking hands, he was wearing my father’s ring. John, John the foolish, beer bellied, rambunctious Uncle John who will now be the prime suspect. We all know the will. My father’s dying wish – “bury me with the ring.” The priceless ring with 24 Karat diamond in it. I stifle my smile. Johnny’s ring, or should I say my fathers ring on his finger glitters dangerously in the light. It looks cheap and tacky, even to an untrained eye. In the far distance I hear sirens. Finally I let my smile break through, to reveal the diamond studded into my back molar. The only place the airport security wont find it. I am rich, I am smart and most importantly I am free.
The lemon falls into the coffin with a shocked murmur from the audience.
Revenge is a bitter fruit indeed.