Everyone slowly shuffled down the line, waiting their turn to glance at the lifeless body in the box. Some were crying, some had this stoic “strong” look on their faces, like an emotionless rock. I’ve always hated shit like this, I never understood the point. Funerals aren’t for the dead, they’re for the living. Sitting in a church and listening to hymnes was a joke. We should have blasted the place with Hell’s Bells. That was his anthem.
Tyler hated religion, hated the idea of God in general. He would have laughed at the thought of all these people in suits and dresses, crying over him, praying to “God.” The most idiotic part is how they say “it was his time.” It was his time? A seventeen year old kid? If religion means believing in a god that decides seventeen years is enough to live, then I want no fucking part of it.
I walked outside in the middle of the service and lit up a cigarette, tired of people squeezing my arm or telling me how “sorry” they are. Yeah, I’m sorry too.
I heard the door open next to me as I was taking a long and much needed drag. I didn’t have to turn to know it was her.
“Really, Gray? You can’t sit through one fucking song without running away?”
I said nothing, just continued to suck in the calming nicotine, relishing the slight burn in the back of my throat.
“You know people are expecting you in there. For once in your life can you understand that something isn’t about you?”
There she goes, setting me off, just like always.
“Oh, fuck you, Claire. Seriously. You know as well as I do that the bullshit circus happening in there has nothing to do with me and it damn well has nothing to do with Tyler,” I said.
She waited a moment before responding, letting the silence stretch between us like elastic.
“I just don’t get funerals, especially like this. Why would we throw a funeral for someone that blew their brains out? Are we supposed to be celebrating this shit?”
“Gray,” she said, warning me.
“You know I’m right.”
“So what if you are? You think sulking and hiding is going to bring Ty back? People in there need you. You’re his-” she stopped herself, almost immediately correcting from present to past tense. “You were his best friend.”
“I thought I was.”
Silence again. I focus on the burning in my throat, finishing the cigarrete with one last, long drag. I’m not ready for the burning to stop. I would light myself on fire if it meant I could stop feeling the way I do right now.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She was looking down at her hands on the railing of the porch.
“Don’t be.”
-Anonymous