There were a few moments in life when Henry had felt truly helpless — and it was, by far, the thing he despised the most. 

If we were to summarize what made Henry tick, what drove him in his everyday life, the goal of his existence, it would be his desire to control every aspect of his life. From his wife, to his work, and everything in between. He was meticulous in every aspect of his life, hoping it would even bring even the semblance of absolute control.

Which made it more devastating to see his illusion crumble into dust in front of his very eyes.

Henry could not even process that feeling. For him, the only thing on his mind was neither sadness, nor emptiness, but guilt. And the worst part was that this was not entirely out of his control; on the contrary, he had absolute control of everything that happened, which made his feeling of helplessness and guilt even worse. 

He had given her the keys to the car. 

He had given her access to the room. 

He had given her reasons to run away. 

He had single-handedly masterminded her accident.

He was the only one to blame.

But was he really? For Murray and Clara at least, Henry was totally innocent — as far as they knew. 

They ruled it out as an accident. A devil's dice game gone bad. Of course, they didn't know the real reason why she suddenly decided to drive home. Henry feigned ignorance, another one of Jabin's timely lessons. If you lied, you were exposed to uncomfortable inquiries, but if you plead ignorance, you get plausible deniability. 

The version Henry told them was that she couldn't get in the room, maybe lost the keys or something, and given how she had no way of reaching Henry, decided to go home by herself. That was the hypothesis, at least. 

He wasn't going to throw himself to the lions — he hadn't lost his mind yet.

That being said, the cause of the accident itself was a little more difficult to figure out. 

When Henry saw the scene unveiling on TV, he immediately felt his heart on the spot. He vaguely remembered Clara yell something at him, followed by both her and Murray pushing him out of the door to the elevator. After that, it all went by in a flash. He was inside an unfamiliar car with the familiar voices droning around him, muddling into white noise.

What came next, however, was in excruciatingly slow motion. 

A police cordon was set at the exit of the road near the accident, followed by a blockade of cruisers, an ambulance, and a few fire trucks. A gaggle of gawkers and neckers were standing by, satisfying their sadistic curiosity by glancing at the officers cleaning the mess. The icy December breeze didn't deter anyone, not even the few idiots recording and taking pictures while making surprised noises to get their fifteen minutes of fame. 

Needless to say, Henry went from cold guilt to hot fury when he saw those vultures taking advantage of his tragedy. He didn't wait for the car to stop before he jumped out, lashing at the first person he managed to get a hold of: a scrawny kid in a beany — most likely a college student — filming a live feed of the events with an iPhone. 

Henry didn't even think about his actions. His fists moved on their own, connecting a sucker punch after sucker punch square on the kid's jaw.

The boy fell on his back more startled than hurt. It was a weak punch, born out of grief and sadness. Henry got on top of him and took advantage of his momentum to punch him again, this time on the nose. It was hard enough to break the kid's nose. The crunch of bones under Henry's fist felt good, cathartic, even. He wanted to squish him like the bug he was.

He wanted to squish himself like the bug he was. 

Henry raised a fist to hammer him again when he felt a hand grab his wrist. It belonged to Clara, who was shouting at him, pleading him to stop — but he was stronger than her. Mightier. Henry easily shoved her off and placed a good jab on the boy's face. The sound of grinding bones beneath his fists was like music to Henry's ears.

But every punch was weaker than the last as Henry's fury was being slowly turned into pity. He felt happy, and sad, and empty, and full, and elated, and pathetic. He just wanted to hit the kid and get it out of his system. Another punch, a straight fist to his mouth. A couple of knocked-out teeth were projected out of the bloodied mouth alongside a slush of blood. Henry reeled back to strike another punch but was pulled away by several sets of hands. A few of the officers guarding the perimeter came to the aid of the kid.

Henry quickly found himself being pushed onto the hood of a police cruiser. With his blood pressure through the roof, his ears were ringing, making him not understand the commands of the cop yelling at him. He tried to explain, to explain that his wife was in there, that it was his car, that the kid was making a joke out of his tragedy, but nothing came out. Nothing but a stuttering mess of syllables and nonsensical sounds. Ears still ringing, heart pumping more blood than it can handle. Pain. Just pain.

It was Clara that intervened for Henry. He couldn't hear what she said, but she succeeded in getting to the officers. Their faces changed to pitiful understanding, letting him go shortly after. Clara stood next to him, gently squeezing his hand to try and soothe him. 

His ears finally caught up with the world, first noticing the buzzing bells of the nearby firetrucks. Then his breathing came in. Ragged, rough, uneven. Clara kept quiet, content in her role of comforting Henry. 

It now occurred to him that Murray was nowhere to be seen. He wanted to ask Clara, but his mouth was dry and clumpy. It wasn't much later that a stumbling Murray, a bit less drunk than before but still pretty hammered, met them with an officer in tow. Henry noticed the grim look on Murray's face, not directed at him, but at Clara. He gave her an almost imperceptible nod, somber and thoughtful, making Henry's heart skip a beat. Murray's default setting was zany at best, so for him to be so formal and quiet was incredibly out of character. 

Whatever horror show awaited them beyond the police line was enough to scare him sober.

The officer spoke in a deep, slow voice, puffing a wisp of white fog from his breath. "Are you Henry White?"

Henry nodded.

The officer produced a charred plastic envelope, the same kind Henry used to store the car's papers in the glove compartment. He handed them to Henry, who noticed that his hands were shaking. "Could you please confirm that these papers belong to your vehicle?"

Henry stared at the words on the paper. He could confirm that there were words on the paper, but could not register the meaning of any of them. Letters just mushed together, creating a visual cacophony without shape. The only words he recognized were that of his name. He nodded to the officer, giving the envelope back. The officer retired to the back of the line, mumbling something or another through his radio.

They were left alone. An eternity, or a second, it didn't matter to Henry. Murray was the one to break the silence.

"Look, I'm gonna level with you: things look pretty bad. They want you to go back there to identify the body and stuff."

Body. It sounded foreign. Out of this world. Another language of another race on another planet. It was an absolute statement in a single word. Henry wasn't particularly hopeful of her survival, given the report on TV, but something inside of him wanted her to linger a little bit longer, to ask for forgiveness, or make amends, whatever to ease his guilt. But he was denied even that. 

The officer came back with a clear bag containing what was clearly Henry's wallet. After comparing his driver's license photo with the real person, he motioned the line to open up for them to cross. The procession that took place on the short walk from where they stood to the crash scene was brief, but to Henry, it might as well have been the entire length of the Great Wall of China.

In front of him, the strutting Murray. Behind him, the pushing Clara.

Henry's eyes were stuck to the ground, watching a foot be placed in front of the other, and so on and so on. He wasn't so much walking but falling ever forward. The pavement was coarse with broken glass, making a crunch with every step. His feet made a sudden stop when the first droplet of blood made its scarlet appearance among the snow. A small, almost dry, drop of crimson. Blood that, until a few hours ago, was used to deliver oxygen to a very alive Zizi. 

He dared to look up. Not ten feet from him laid a pale, dismembered arm. 

Zizi was all around him, in pieces. A hand here, a finger there, a ragged dress over there, and a mangled, broken torso next to a twisted ball of metal.

That was the last thing that crossed his mind before he met the asphalt head-on.

When Henry came to, he was laying on a gurney in the back of an ambulance, with the sun just about peaking through the skyscrapers. Sitting on the edge of the ambulance was a worn-out Murray, who was nursing a water bottle.

"Mur..." whispered Henry, loud enough to get his attention. 

Murray placed the water bottle aside, rising to meet Henry, who suddenly felt a sharp pain on his forehead. "What happened?"

"You tried to headbutt the ground. The ground won."

Even in hard times, Murray managed to make the dumbest jokes. 

Murray waved it off the air as if he could just unsay his words. "You've been gone for a few hours now. Forensics bagged everything. The police want to ask you a few things, but after you recover. I think that's all."

Henry tried to sit up, but the world turned upside down. He sat back on the gurney. "Did you see her? Are you sure it was her?"

Murray looked at Henry in the eyes, as serious as he could be, considering how to best respond. "It was pretty fucked up. It was almost impossible to recognize her at first...but yes, it was her. They recommend cremation, you know. I know you don't wanna think about that now-"

Murray took another swig of water, letting Henry absorb the info. " Anyways. For now, they think it was her narcolepsy acting up. That, and shitty roads. Fucking black ice. We'll know for sure once they do the autopsy. They also took the car, or what's left of it anyway, to check if it wasn't a mechanical error. Can you stand?"

Henry tried again, this time only getting a little unbalanced. With the help of a few paramedics, and Murray, they got him into Murray's car.

The ride back home was uneventful and quiet — only the bustling noise of the city conducting business as usual calmed Henry somewhat.

It wasn't long until they pulled in front of Henry's home. Murray placed one hand on Henry's shoulder, showing the most affection he could muster.

"It wasn't your fault," said Murray. 

That was a lie, and Henry knew it. But he didn't dare to correct him. Somehow, it was something he could hold on to. 

It was not his fault. It was not his fault. It was not his fault.

Maybe, if he repeated it enough times, he would start to believe it.

It was almost 3 o'clock when he was suddenly awakened by Jacob, informing him that some police officers were looking for him downstairs. He donned a robe, groggily making his way downstairs. 

Two female officers were outside his home, one short and stout, and another something akin to a former football player. They asked him all kinds of questions regarding the night before, his relationship with Zizi, about his car, about everything. He answered to the best of his abilities, of course, pleading ignorance on the matter of her motives. The whole affair took a few hours. In the end, the officers told Henry that the autopsy was inconclusive given the mangled state of the body, and that she would be returned to allow Henry to set the funeral preparations.

After a quick meal, he went back to sleep, playing the last 24 hours on his mind again. And again. And again. He was tired. So very tired.

Hours turned to days. New Year's came and went without pomp or circumstance. And the nothing that he could think of was one line. 

It wasn't my fault. 

Sometimes, he dreamed of Zizi. Of her beautiful dazzling eyes that shined under the gleam of her smile. Other times, he dreamed of her deadpan face, and her mangled body. Sometimes, he dreamed of both, and sometimes with neither.

While Henry grieved, the Board of Directors chose Murray to step in as interim CEO, while Clara took care of the funeral arrangements. They never did anything without Henry's approval, which consisted mostly of a nonchalant shrug or a single-minded nod.

On January 3rd, four days after the tragedy, the house was clean and pristine, food trays laid on a few tables, and seats laid across the living room, all set up to receive the guests that in a few hours would pay respects to the earthly remains of Zinet "Zizi" Geber.

Just as the police suggested, Henry decided to cremate the body, placing the ashes in a vase that she had made a few years prior. It was a beautiful piece, colored in reds, yellows, and greens, describing a colorful festival by a river. Clara had chosen that one specifically as it reminded her of Zizi's spirit: free, warm, vibrant.

On a small desk, the now-funeral vase was accompanied by a photo of a young Zizi with one of her brightest smiles. It was the most recent picture they could find; she was never a fan of photos, deciding to live in the moment rather than spoiling it by trying to find the perfect pose. In front of it was a small bouquet of her absolute, most favorite flower: Honeyworts. Delicate, yet resilient, just like her.

Murray stood behind Henry, pointing at the flowers on the desk. "Don't wanna know how I got a bouquet of those in the winter. I had to fly them here without getting them freezing to death. If you open a window, I swear to sweet baby Jesus I'll club you like Tonya Harding."

Henry had felt very aggressive as of late, and Murray's off-colored jokes weren't making him any less so. Murray took his silence as having gone a little too far and contented himself on taking a seat next to the urn.

He produced a flask from his breast pocket, downing a swig from whatever foul liquid was inside. That ticked Henry off. "Could you at least stop being a fucking drunk for one day? Show some respect for Zizi."

Murray snickered under his breath. "Let me cope my way. I won't get drunk, I promise. But don't mess with my drink. I'm anxious."

"You seem to be always coping with something, then. I'll not have you being a drunk merry idiot in front of the guests." Something about Murray that was irritating for him. The drinking, his casual attitude, just...something wanted to make Henry punch him in the face.

"Get the stick out of your ass, Henry. It's just some schnapps. I get more drunk out of tap water."

"Don't fucking tell me to relax!" snapped Henry. It was rare for him to curse, much less to Murray. But his mouth had taken a mind of its own, and it wasn't finished yet. "You always have a damn drink in your hand, making everyone babysit you. You are not a functioning alcoholic; you are a keg with legs. For once in your life, you might want to stay sober long enough to remember that you have to be there for the people around you. Leave the fucking flask alone and sober up."

Murray was like a deer caught in a headlight. Both from the fact that Henry was shouting at him, and for the petty reasoning behind it. He met his eyes and downed the whole flask on one long chug. He stood up quickly after that, wiping a few dribbles of liquid that escaped the corners of his mouth.

"Look, Henry, I know you are mad and upset, and feel all kinds of weird shit, but I ain't your punching bag. You wanna be an asshole? Fine, but be fucking careful who you're messing with. You don't see me rubbing on your nose that while you were stuck in your room, feeling sorry for yourself, my wife had to make all the arrangements for the funeral, or that I had to do both our jobs back at Geber. We also have a right to grief. Zizi was a friend for us, and Zacky's godmother. Do you see us bitching about it? Hell no. My wife hasn't even had the time to cry yet, because, from the first moment, you were acting like a little bitch that couldn't even function unless mommy grabbed your hand and told you that things are okay. If you want to lash out, do it, I won't judge. But don't shit on us like you are the only one affected by this. Think about that." 

And with that said, Murray made his exit, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from his coat on his way out.

Henry felt a rock at the pit of his stomach. Murray didn't get it — he didn't know the truth, nor would he ever. He was very forgiving, and will probably be back to normal after a few cigarettes anyways, so he would sort it out on his own.

A sudden cough brought his attention to the hallway, where Clara stood with her arms crossed. 

"Mur can be a real asshole when he wants to be, but he's right," she said, as if she could read his mind.

"Look, sweetie," whispered Clara, while taking the seat that Murray had occupied a few moments ago, "I know you feel bad. You wanna lash out at the world. Find something to blame, and punch, and fuck over. But there ain't none. It's nobody's fault."

Henry wanted to correct her, to say it was his fault, to say that he had pushed her to the edge, but the words got caught in his throat.

Clara seemed to notice the pain on Henry's face, as she continued to push him. "Say it. Say it's not your fault."

"Clara... I..."

"Say it. You can blame God. You can blame the ice. The car, the government, her illness. Whatever you wanna stick ya fancy in. But don't go blaming yourself l, sweetie. I wanna hear you say it."

Murray was right. Clara was acting like a mother for him. Forgiving and nurturing. It made Henry feel even worse.

Clara stood up, placing a very confused Henry into a tight, motherly embrace, with his face resting on her bosom while she gently stroked his hair.

"It's fine. Let it out, sweetie. I don't mind. I got my own way of grieving. Some people cry others drink, but I like to keep busy. If I have free time to cry, I'll cry till I'm dry. Just let everyone be whatever they want to be."

That was enough to open the floodgates. For the first time since it happened, he cried. Not out of loss, or grief, but out of guilt. There he was, with two wonderful friends, and he couldn't share the burden with them. He could only cry.

At some point, Murray returned from his smoke break smelling of winter and ashes. Henry knew he had to make amends. Breaking the embrace, he fiddled with his pockets, looking for a little key. It was an old copper key which opened the creaking door to the cellar. He tossed it to Murray, who caught it deftly in the air.

Murray understood that was Henry's way of apologizing.

"Get the good stuff and pour us a glass. My throat is dry."

Murray just snorted with a lopsided smile, as if to say, 'all is forgiven'.

"You still haven't said it, you know..." interrupted Clara. He knew she wouldn't let it rest if he didn't comply.

"It was not my fault," he stated. It felt foreign. A lie.

"Again," ordered Clara.

"It was not my fault."

"One more time."

"It was not my fault."

"Good, good," nodded Clara, patting him on the back. "Every time you feel like you wanna go back to sad town, keep repeating it, even if you don't believe it. Eventually, it will start to sound true. You just gotta believe."

But, if it wasn't his fault...

Then, whose fault was it?

WALTZ FOR ZIZI - END