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Don Juan est Mort

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Carlo can barely stand being in Seville any longer. 

Even though the spreading bloodstains were thoroughly washed away before even a week passed, looking at the square where his friend bled out makes him feel like he's being stabbed in the heart himself.

"You could have won, you idiot!" he shouts, once, in the family mausoleum where Juan's body was laid. "Why did you do it?" he pleads to the marble slab locking Juan away forever, brushing away hot tears that make the letters blur.

Someone keeps leaving red roses on the tomb. He's glimpsed Maria slipping out at sunset once, and seen Isabella buying the same flowers in the market. Even Elvira comes, once, although she does not step inside the mausoleum and her roses are pure white, not red.

Carlo wishes he had the courage to leave flowers.

"It had to be you, didn't it," he complains to the silent marble, before taking another swig of sangria. "I couldn't have any normal friends who didn't run around sleeping with every woman in town, and then drive themselves mad over someone they couldn't have, oh no."

Don't tell me you're not grateful for making your life exciting.

He can almost picture Juan sitting there on the marble tomb, toying with one of the roses left there to mourn him.

Look who's driving himself mad over someone he can't have now.

Carlo presses his hands against his eyes as he tries to banish the image. Maybe he shouldn't drink so much. But after Juan's death there seemed to be so little point in anything else...

"Go away," he demands. Begs, rather.

Oh, Carlo.

The phantom of Juan that Carlo has conjured up reaches out sadly as it fades.

What did I ever do to deserve you?

Carlo picks up the wilting rose.

His hand tightens around the stem, until a few drops of blood slowly trickle into the letters Maria had carved into the slab with cruel tenderness.

DON JUAN
BELOVED SON

He wonders if Juan would have been gratified or furious at his father’s choice of words, words he  never used while he was alive.

Carlo was never able to say what he really felt, either.

“I wish I was the one who died,” Carlo confesses to the cold marble as he gently lays the rose down beneath the name. “But it had to be you...”