Prologue
Church bells.
The eerie sound slowly creeps its way through my body. Every resonating toll kills me a little more, scarring me from the inside out.
This isn’t happening.
This isn’t happening.
I’m not at Mom’s burial. I did not find her hanging from the ceiling beam wearing her fucking wedding dress like in some tacky horror movie. I did not.
The vivid images of her dead face that rip through my head like a broken record are a steady reminder of the nightmare that has become my life. Five days have gone by since she took her own life. Five days of insane pain and not understanding how the world works anymore.
The preacher mumbles words. I suppose, it’s the closing prayer or something. I don’t really know. The loud thumping of my heart overrides every incoming sound. My eyes have been cast down this entire time, but I need to know if this reality. Am I really at Mom’s funeral?
I glance at the people that are gathered around the casket. Some family members and friends decided to show up. Not too many, though. Apparently, suicide makes people nervous, as if it’s contagious.
My grandparents are here too. They’re both crying. This would be considered normal behavior, weren’t it for the fact that they cast Mom aside when she married my blue-collar father. How dare they come here when they showed no interest in us for all these years? I hardly ever saw them. Probably too busy sipping champagne at the country club, laughing at poor people. Yeah, they’re loaded with old money. Both sporting designer clothes and expensive jewelry. They sent me a Rolex once. I tossed it down the gravel quarry. Pretentious fucking assholes.
My eyes seek Stacy. Her body shudders while she has her face pressed against my aunt Cordelia’s shoulder. I can’t look at her. It hurts too much.
Lastly, my gaze lands on my father. His face holds no emotion. He simply stares at the casket with his hands folded in front of him. How could he have let this happen? While I cried my eyes out, he showed absolutely nothing. Yeah, sure, he’s a boys-don’t-cry kinda guy, but at least give your grieving children a fucking hug or something. He didn’t do that. In fact, he went back to work the day after she died and let our aunt deal with us. I’m surprised he found the time to even be here.
The crippling pain slowly turns into anger. This emotion is new to me. Sure, I’ve been moody, but this type of enragement is unfamiliar. Since I don’t know what to do with it, I stuff it deep down and let it blacken my heart.
“ … through Jesus Christ, our Lord, Amen,” the preacher says, ending the prayer. I rip my focus away from my father and turn it to the sinking casket. Mom will be wasted in the ground with no one to keep her company but the roots of the oak trees that surround the cemetery.
Someone nudges me forward to say my goodbyes. Words escape me. My insides are twisting and my lungs don’t seem to function. How do people survive this kind of gruesome pain? The red roses on top of the white wood resemble the color of blood. It freaks me out, so I look at the picture of my mother that’s displayed behind the grave.
“I love you,” I say quietly, and then swear to never speak those words again.
