Death is an orange peel. The moment it breaks away from the flesh of the fruit, its tiny white hairs curling in on themselves like the arms of a dying fern, and falls into the graveyard of a napkined lap, it is exactly like a human death. In those last moments of life, the soul fights to stay attached, to be one with the broken body. It curls in on itself, trying to fit and not escape between cracks to be hurled up into the heavens and away from all it knows. My life is the orange, waiting for the end and shuddering against the touch of another.

Still, I cannot think on that long. For now there is only one touch I welcome. The silk of metal, warmed by my hand, as I grasp my gun, wrapping my fingers around it's length like that of a lover. It has been a very long time since I have danced with either. It has been so long since I was normal. Since I was sane and happy and knew nothing of how the brain really looks gray in the afternoon sun, or that a man whose brachial artery is severed will bleed out in a minute or two, or of how congealed blood on my hands runs into the white basin of a sink like Jell-O off a spoon.

Instead, the morning finds me sitting up in the queen sized bed of my motel room, the bright California sun beating its way through the moth-eaten holes in the room's curtains and me trying not to think that my twin is gone. It is hard to believe that just last week Eleanor, my Ellie, had rung me and begged me to come to Los Angeles. The city of her angels. She had been lost without me, the other half that kismet has fused to her, and I without her. Seattle, while appealing to my bohemian flare, had been full of only strangers and storm clouds, and I was ready to support my sister. And, sitting on the bed, the package from the Walking Dead laid carefully between my outstretched legs, I am still ready to follow her anywhere. Her death has fueled me, pulled me closer to her somehow even while she's gone so far away to sing and dance and play with her angels. I am all that is left. This lone caged bird.

All yesterday I left her package in the room, unopened, and waiting for my return. Some secret part of me wasn't ready, didn't want to fully accept that Eleanor was dead and that this was the only path left to me. Being in a new city, even for such a short time, had made me feel almost like my old self again but the package and its contents were a solid reminder that all castle towers can fall. The package was simple, a small box wrapped in brown paper. There was no postal stamp, no tag or markings from a messenger, only the small elegant scrawl of my sister's hand on its top. It read only, "My Lovely Elizabetta," and I hungered for more of her when I read it.

I leaned forward and slid my legs beneath me, preparing for the inevitable as best I could. I was naked but for a scrap of underthings and the locks of fine copper hair that spilled from the crown of my head to drape and caress my pale shoulders. The hot city air made it too sticky for any type of formal clothing, and when alone I prefered to be in my natural state. It was one of the only things I could control and I relished it. Kneeling, as though I was a pious woman deep in thought and prayer, I ran my hands over the smooth brown wrappings of the box. I ran my fingers along the slit of fold on each side and plucked at the bindings. They fell away without too much effort, and I knew then that Eleanor had wrapped it herself. She was always so careful with me, the younger sister, and she knew I got papercuts easily. The care made me pause but I forged on. Too much time in reflection and I knew I would never gain the resolve again. When the bindings were released, I folded the paper, her handwriting looking up at me, and placed the wrappings carefully on the bedside table. I wanted to keep everything she had touched.

What was revealed was a small, cobalt blue cookie tin. It was unremarkable, all scratched and dented as it was, and to anyone else it would be nothing but a vessel for whatever jewels were inside. I knew it for what it was however. The tin had belonged to our mother, long before she had lost our father, back when she smiled often and easily. It was the only thing of our old life that she had cared for, filled with old photographs, the locker her mother's mother had given her, a lock of our brother's hair when he was a baby, and everything that she felt could never be replaced. Our mother had taken it with us to Italy, filled it with dried flowers from gardens on Lake Como, and stored all of her joy within its depths. We had always associated that tin with the best parts of our lives, with everything we stood for and everything we would sacrifice ourselves for. I had not seen it in years.

Carefully, with steady hands, I opened the lid. There were no dried rose petals, no stills of my father at the track with his favourite horse, no bits of rememberance and love. Instead there was the glint of morning light off of the side of a Colt .45, a faded and well worn stack of bills, a small note at the bottom of the tin, and three bullets. My hands went for the gun first. It was weather worn and the grip smoothed from years of use. I had seen it before, many times in fact, and remembered its feel in my small hands. My father had first taught me how to shoot the second his baby girl could hold the gun straight. Tin cans and our mother's stockings filled with chicken seed never stood a chance against this little spitfire. I smiled to myself at the memory and ran my hands all over the Colt. My fingers found it before my eyes did, the tiny grooves in the butt of the revolver. I flipped it over and laughed aloud. There, by my father's name, which he had carved into the hard grip, were the initials of my brother and sister. The gun had history, as did the small bullets left in the tin, one name and one bullet for each person I had ever loved.

I moved on then to the money, twenty five thousand dollars in cash, that I knew would check out. Eleanor was nothing if not careful about such things. Though the money was a nice gesture it was not something I was overly concerned about. The note remained, tucked carefully inside the hollows of my mother's sacred tin. I removed it slowly and unfolded it. Immediately dried flowers fell and rained down on my lap, a shower composed of little bits of Ellie's heart. She had remembered and I loved her more for that. Moving the flowers aside, careful not to break them into potpouri, I settled down against the lumpy pillows of my borrowed bed and read the note.

Her words were beautiful, as they always had been... and they read...

Aeolus reads with excitement, becoming more interested as the story continues and...

Oh come on! I should have seen the ending coming.

I love your writing. Its full of suspense and great detail. I can't wait for your next amazing piece.

Note:  It has been pointed out to me that I have mispoke.  The .45 and the Colt revolver are indeed, not the same weapon... and I am sorry to any gun enthusiasts reading this who were put off by my inaccuracy.  The gun in question, to which the story refers, is the revolver, not the semi-automatic .45.  Again, sorry for this... please forgive and enjoy anyway.

Very good story! captivating as always. Left me wanting more. I want to know what the note says! 

It was beautiful *sniffs*

Can't wait for the continuation!