A finished man with nothing that he could construct to live for, and Ever had witnessed the demise, the whole decay of a soul. A putrid decay. A vibrant, happy functioning soul that had wound down to death. No one really can understand what happens to a man when purpose is taken away, when all that you have focused on is no longer allowed to happen. When people tell you that you can’t do what you want to do, what you know how to do; you are forced to a stop, and look at a wall and go blank. Switched off. They have switched you off; they did it, they stopped the joy. They decided – the human race that is.

*

One man, he had broken it down to one man.

Although it was probably more than one, but somehow one was enough to carry out the retribution.

He saw it as more than revenge, it was a statement for all lives that had been controlled, affected by other people because they didn’t care.

A big thing of his, this caring.

When it comes down to the final moment does anyone give the slightest squidge of shit? He believed the man didn’t, and so he was going to make him care – or rather make sure that he would never have the option not to care again. A son was going to sacrifice himself for his father to show that somebody, somewhere, did care.

And it was not even an effort.

*

He sat having tea in the brown room.

He so wanted to tell this physical dignity poised in front of him what he was going to do, but knew he wouldn’t, so instead these words came out.

‘I am so sorry, has your husband died?’

‘Sweet boy. I was married once, twice actually, but long gone.’

And then he caught sight of her finger that was not bearing the restriction of a ring. A manacle of possession. Her hands brown and shining, as the cream of years nourished the wrinkles in a battle that would be forever lost.

She raised her slightness to her feet with a greater agility than he had perceived before, she said she needed to rest, and it was so nice to meet him.

They walked, slowly, to the front door across the brown polished floor, she had taken his arm for support again, the daylight from the garden was now dimming, they entered the lobby, equally brown; the windows, blinded by white linen curtains, stood either side of the door that anticipated its opening as it had previously witnessed their arrival.

The sounds of a tray being removed behind them betrayed the presence of Manita, quick to clear the slightest obstruction to the order of her life and return the cups, saucers, milk and unused sugar to a kitchen that he could only imagine.

Was it, too, brown?