Heart of the Bayou Beasts

Bri

My fingers brushed the smooth stone of the mausoleum. The tips traced the words of the machine-hewn inscription.

Sabastian Piere La’ Blanc, 

Dutiful Husband, 

Leader, and Humanitarian. 

The symbol of the coven etched beneath it. A coven raised within New Orleans meshing the world of cajun hereditary witches with the deep roots of voodoo practitioners. My fingers traced the dates from his birth to the day life ended in 1994, ten achingly long years ago. He deserved to have a craftsman etching his stone crypt, not some effortless, heartless machine, chiseling out empty words void of empathy. The pads of my fingers caressed each chip in the stone,I felt he deserved. There was nothing in the inscription, to note the little girl he left behind after his death. The only soul who still visited his grave every weekend, placing flowers in the vases at the door. The only one who still mourned his insurmountable loss. There is nothing here besides the lilies I attentively place and the tears that have been shed into the soil, washed away by rain and hurricanes alike. He had been everything to the little girl he saved out of the trash in the ninth ward. A tiny infant whose power and magic he said called him to stride through the filth of New Orleans’ poorest district, following his divine gift through the drab streets and alleys in his tailored suit. Collecting the wailing child, he brought the innocent babe home to his barren wife to raise as their own.