I hate thy kind
The rain falls in clear sheets over a tableau in monochrome. It runs down black umbrellas, along black coats, over black mud and into an open grave as a black coffin descends into its depths.
The only sound is of falling water on autumn leaves and the falling tears of those in attendence.
This is a funeral, you observe. How did I get here?
The mourners' faces are familiar, identically dressed but each a separate instance of your life: a co-worker, a school friend, a sibling, a lover….
I walk over to the headstone. The name comes into view. It looks familiar.
It looks familiar because it's mine.
My name is Carl Pamei.
Engraved in black capitals, 'HERE LIES CARL PAMEI.'
This is my funeral.
It makes sense, really. It explains why the rain passes through me and why I don't feel cold. It explains why I'm the only one not wearing black and it explains why no-one is looking at me,why no-one is speaking to me.
Well, almost no-one