LIVE AND LET DIE

One hears of love and it's virtues. This tale is one of the desperation to keep love alive,once you don't recognize yourself without it.

 Live and let die

The creaking sound of a chair rocking on the porch, reached my ears as I kept my eyes shut against the lazy afternoon sun. I tried engaging myself with the sparrows' chirping. Having served my country all these years, I felt I deserved to. More so, than any of my neighbors who had lived their civil lives of little consequence, their greatest concern being the help’s emolument.
The chirping was however, irreverently compromised by the rhythmic sound of boots crunching the gravel. Estranged from my reverie, I opened my eyes to see the new neighbor, struggling under the weight of a water bed mattress as he dragged it across my driveway. Something seemed off about him. He had just recently moved into the house emptied by a paraplegic divorced lady which made him a person to be referred to in whispers in the neighborhood

 If there was anything good about this neighborhood, it was the abundance of debauchery. There were always plenty of people at parties and plenty of parties for people to be at. Our aging neighbor however, was a constant conspicuous absentee. He was rarely seen, except in the afternoons, when he would be tending to his lilies - his own garden of immaculately spaced lilies - his obsession. You could see him there, his matted tendrils of hair stuck to the back of his neck as he toiled under the sun-alone.

I approached him one morning as the sparrows sang their daily tune, and stood next to him as he gardened, and rebuked each of my friendly inquiries with the most concise of answers until the sound of something like a muffled call over in the house drew his attention. He mumbled something about his maid and went inside leaving me alone with his lilies. They did look lovely with their faces upturned and their lips parted, as if to whisper a secret.

The next few months passed quite uneventfully. Until one morning, the sound of screaming of a man startled me. I ran out to see the most bizarre sight. It seemed rather unusual. My old neighbor was chasing some kids who had run over his lilies. He screamed and jumped and trampled the remaining flowers before falling prostrate on the ground and breaking down into tears. In the months that followed he became even more sequestered, up until spring, with which came his reappearance and the planting and tending of lilies again. This time they were lovelier than before and seemed open to finally speak forth their secrets.

The following day, the usual chirping of the sparrows was seared through by the sound of a gunshot. I automatically checked for my pistol only to find that it was missing. It couldn't have been clearer that it was the old man. 
A crowd gathered and we moved into his house.

A solitary beam of sunlight from a crack in the ceiling lit up the listless interiors, the unsettled dust illuminated and masquerading as sparkling lilies. And then we saw it-the spatter of blood, the aged picture of the previous owner holding a lily standing next to our neighbor, the two beds - one with a water mattress. As the pieces came together, I ran up the stairs, through the beam of light, dispersing the dust and onto the balcony.

From above, what greeted my eyes was the sight of lilies, spelling out the word "Love" and the old paraplegic lady lying dead, a lily in her hand, her lover beside her, my gun in his hand.

Author's Note

I am just starting out .This is a passion,be as critical as possible. I will be happy to do the same for you.