A "cover page" for a story I may write one day. Here is the opening scene this image is all about: ----------------------- It was a funeral and it was cold. I hated both. Well, I didn’t really hate the cold, I just disliked it strongly. Heavy clothes always restricted movement, and despite my best efforts I always managed to jam coats in car doors. But funerals I really hated. They always seemed like an exercise in insincerity to me. Distant relatives came out of the woodworks and professed how sincerely they missed the dear departed when they hadn’t seen him in a decade. And at least some of them would turn into vultures at the first opportunity and start bickering over whatever legacy had been left. Call me cynical, but I had seen it happen too often. Then there are colleagues and co-workers who will tell everyone what a great bloke the guy had been, and how much they would miss him. In truth most of them probably had no idea if the ‘poor guy’ collected stamps in his spare time or ate babies for breakfast. Who would get his better paid job was what they cared about, but at least their bickering would happen out of sight of the close relatives. Yes, it was a cynical attitude, and perhaps I read too much of myself into other peoples’ behavior. Maybe my father’s funeral was still too much on my mind when I visited a graveyard, even it had been six years ago. But I treasured that cynicism. In my line of work I needed a way to distance myself from the people around me, and so far it had worked for me. I took another drag at my cigarette and tried to banish the past from my mind. In the distance unfolded a scene I had seen too often for my taste, but still I watched. I was waiting for the crowd to disperse, so I could pay my respect to Dmitry in an honest, sincere way. Until then all I could do was draw the coat closer around me and watch the wind scatter the wisps of smoke rising from my cigarette. Finally the wait was over and I started to walk slowly towards the freshly dug pit. On the way I got a good look at Dmitry’s parents still standing by his grave. His mother was close to tears, but hid it pretty well, while his father looked indifferent. Perhaps he had not yet realized that the only bread earner in the family had left forever, and perhaps he really didn’t care. It wasn’t my business. I was here to find my own sense of closure. I knelt by the grave and gently let the single rose slip into the grave. It landed on top of a small heap of earth and colorful bouquets, and in the shadows of the pit the petals looked more black than red. To me that seemed quite appropriate. When I rose and started to walk away, Dmiitry’s mother called out to me and I turned back to her for a small conversation. When she asked who I was, the name I had prepared for just this occasion slipped from my lips easily. It was the only lie I told them. No, I hadn’t known their son for very long. Oh no, I had met him through his work. Yes, it was a shame how lawless the town had become. A senseless death, yes. Oh, he had seemed quite an energetic and capable young man to me. But I didn’t want to intrude any more. They probably needed some time to themselves, to say their own farewells. I shook their hands and offered them a little smile. “I am sorry for your loss.” They had lost the closest relative they had, and for the loss they felt I was sorry. What I didn’t tell them was how little I regretted the death of their only son. It was him or me. If I hadn’t killed him it would have been my funeral today. ----------------------- Of all the products used in this image I am particularly fond of the T-Suit and T-Coat for A3 found here in the Rosity marketplace, and the textures for it by outoftouch. And I think this wouldn't look even half as good without the background, which is the skydome from the Dystopia city blocks from DAZ.