Dead Musings

The funeral casket lay open, and beside it stood my mother and sister. I stared down into it, too. He looked just the same, like when he was napping on the couch and Mother was trying to wake him up before he droooled all over the pillows. I thought my brother looked a little weird from this angle, though, like the body was simply a simulacrum and the choking sobs were that of expert actors. I've never quite seen him so... peaceful. But it was unsettling. No, not only his death, but my utterly effortless indifference. It was as if he had not been run over by the truck in the first place. The grief I felt, or didn't feel, was infinitesimal as compared to my burning hatred towards my cruel indifference. Towards myself. Ironic, is it not? Then again, having seen my mother bawl her eyes out over the last few days, and hearing the sounds of shattering, crashing glass and whatever she might have hurled against her now-scratched wall, I think I am rather fortunate, being spared from such adversities.

Since that day, it's like I have witnessed the complete, detailed spectrum of human grief, a collection of the complexities of human emotion, displayed by my own family no less. I've always like observing such things, disturbing or not. The screaming, crying, punching, yelling, hitting, or even the silence, numbness, The ability of a human being to abandon all traces of human dignity, deserting any attachment to all sorts of self-respect to simply express has always either fascinated or overwhelmed me. Or made me cringe, depending on my mood.

I felt a sharp pinch at my side and held back a wince, looking up to see her staring sharply at me with her red, puffy eyes. Apparently, I had been tapping my foot on the ground for the last five minutes, and of course, Mother noticed it. She is annoyed by almost everything and anything beneath the sun. I can hardly blame her, though. Her son just died. Oh wait, my brother. Right.

I reluctantly lifted my head up, my gaze drifting away from my laces and finally to the monotonous surroundings. The room was filled with my relatives, whom I barely recognised. What's the point of remembering, anyway? The next time I meet these relatives - or should I say, strangers - would be when someone else dies. Also, I intensely execrated their pitying stares. It was almost humiliating. I almost felt like a homeless beggar, if not for the expensive formal funeral wear Mother forced on me.

Death is such a beautiful thing, yet so feared. It is an end, but then a beginning. I mean, I guess I can’t assume everyone believes in heaven... but nevertheless, life is finite. Death is a sentence everyone, every single person on this miserable planet, is condemned with. Or is it a gift? One could never tell. To see so many succumb to abject misery due to something so obvious, so inevitable, is utterly disheartening. To me, at least. It’s simply counter-intuitive. Then again, humans aren’t designed to be rational... are we?

I wonder what my funeral would be like. I hope it isn't as miserable as this one, punctuated with choking sobs and a the agonising repetition of the classic "I'm sorry for your loss." I hope no one cries. I hope they drink a lot.

The ride home was silent, of course. I think this line is overused, like I just read it somewhere in one of my books. Well, not that there's much to say about such a mundane event. It's all the same. Pretending not to see my sister giving me her characteristic death glare from my peripheral vision, I fished out the book from my bag, my fingers casually brushing against the side of the book before opening it to the bookmarked page. My brother dying doesn't mean that I can't enjoy a good novel in peace... right? Something about her trying to stare me down with those swollen eyes amused me. I felt like laughing, and felt horrible for it. I almost did, though. I'm a terrible human being, aren't I?

Over the last few days, since that day, I had tried, many a time, to seem affected or at least somewhat depressed. These pathetic attempts (unsurprisingly) were in vain. Thinking about it now, I'm appalled by my efforts to appear down just to appease them, even though they are my family. However, I do feel rather sorry for them. It's like my apathy alone had the power to drive them mad. My apathy wasn't a thing, it was a lack of it. It was a chasm, yet, it was so tempermental.

The only thing that snapped me out of my thoughtful oblivion was the distinct high-pitched beeping sound that indicated that the car was being parked. Home.