The Funeral

TW: Descriptions of a funeral, blood, and the death of a loved one

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        The blood seeped out of her. She became pale, but the next time I see her she's pink. The funeral is odd, there are so many people. Some are laughing and joking, messing around. This is wrong. I need to go to the bathroom. No. I need to get to Etta. She's staring at the casket when I come up to her. Her hands are shaking. I want to touch her. Tell her that it will be ok. But I don't think it will. I don't think I can tell her another lie. My chest feels heavier the more I stare at her shaking body. She's trying not to cry, I can tell that's the only way she sleeps at night. My emotions get the best of me and I grab her hand. It's cold. Like a dead person's. She finches at the touch of my hand but doesn't turn around. I don't speak. I can't. Not without saying something I shouldn't. 

 

        The bells chime through the cold air conditioning. And I gently pull her hand towards me. When her eyes meet mine I see her dark circles and her bloodshot eyes. But past that is immense pain. Not physical though. 

        "Should we go sit down?" I say with the calmest voice I can create. 

        She doesn't speak but nods her head. We sit in the 5th row, one close up but also hidden from the pitying eyes.

        The cherry red—otherwise known to me as fresh blood red—seats are ironic to have in a church mostly used for funerals. I rub my hand against the fabric of the seats, the rough surface feels like it's cleansing my hand. I plant it down and breathe. I go to move my other hand before I realize it's still holding Etta's hand. Her hand has warmed up, or mine has cooled down. 

She stares dead eyed at the pope who, without remorse, talks. Her face is pink, with an undertone of green. She looks like she could punch the pope and throw up all at the same time. 

        Etta's nose is puffy and pink, the pinkness swelling up to her eyes and down to her lips. Her face is pink. But it was also pale. She was still alive. Her hand presses into mine and I rubbed my thumb over her palm. She is still alive.

        My chest starts caving in, or at least it feels like it is. I feel something grabbing at my throat. Its claws cutting into my skin. Blood gushing. I am pale. No, I'm still alive. 

        I have to go. Even if we're still alive right now we might not be by the end of this service. I drop Etta's hand and say I had to go. She tries to grab my hand back but I pull away. It is for her own good.

        The hot humid summer air punches my face when I open the stained glass door. It is a beautiful sunny summer day. But it doesn’t feel beautiful. I'd rather it was storming right now. It'd be more fitting. 

        I walk to the road before turning to look at the church. Its old wooden beams that rose into the new ceiling looked out of place after they re-did it. It somehow felt like a knife to my back. The out of place uncanniness can only ever remind me of the man who's brought me here. The man who's been torturing me for as long as I can remember.