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Donna and Aurora take their turns at the podium, their tearful eulogies for Jackson a glaring reminder of the love and bond they shared with him. Donna, her voice shaky yet filled with strength, recounts tales of a mischievous Jackson in his boyhood days. Aurora, her eyes filled with unshed tears, shares memories of the protective older brother who was always there for her. Their raw pain is apparent, etching deeper lines of grief onto their already sorrow-stricken faces.
As their words fade into the heavy silence of the church, I know it's my turn to speak. My heels click against the church's stone floor in a rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart. As I step up to the podium, I glance at Jackson's family.
"I am sorry you lost Jackson," I say in a voice barely above a whisper.
That’s all I can muster to say. I’m not an actress. I can’t make tears fall anytime I want. There’s no love lost here, and I can tell by the narrowing of their eyes that they expect me to say more, but I don’t. As my words hang in the air, I turn to the priest, silently motioning for him to close out the funeral. My part in this ceremony is done. I have said my words and offered my condolences, and now it is time to move on.
The ceremony comes to an end, and I'm ushered into the receiving line. I sigh with relief as I perform my final duty. I stand with a downcast gaze with my lips pressed into a thin line as a steady stream of people approach, each face a blur of sympathy and sorrow.
"I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Blackhart,” a woman says in a voice choked with emotion. She looks familiar, but I can't quite place her.
"Thank you," I murmur in response.
Another figure approaches, an older man with a weathered face. "Jackson was a good man. A loss to us all," he mumbles, his eyes moist with unshed tears.
"Thank you," I repeat, my tone as cold and unyielding as the winter frost.
One by one, they come. Each bearing their condolences as if they were offering me a lifeline, unaware of the fact that I never wanted to be saved. I despised Jackson. Their words of comfort fall on deaf ears, and their pity is misplaced, but they don't know. They don't know that with each passing moment, with each 'sorry for your loss,' I feel a sense of relief washing over me. They can't see it. They don’t see that I didn't shed a single tear for Jackson. I won't. Not now, not ever.
As soon as everything is over, I head toward the car as fast as my feet will allow me. I want to get as far away from the Blackharts as I can. I don’t make it a couple of feet before a hand grabs me and turns me around.
“How could you just stand there?” Aurora yells at me. “I saw you at the party. You did nothing. You let him die!”
I stand there silently, not giving her the satisfaction of replying.
“Answer me, bitch!” she says before slapping me in the face.
My head whips to the side, and I turn toward her with anger in my eyes. I shove her hard, and she stumbles.
“Touch me again, and I will kill you,” I tell her before walking away.
I can hear her screaming behind me, saying that this isn’t over. As far as I’m concerned, this is over. I’m free, and I can’t wait to move on with my life.
I climb into the car and tell Harrison to take me home. My childhood home. I made sure to have my things moved back there during the funeral preparations. I knew that when the funeral ended, I’d never return to Jackson’s home. It can rot and decay for all I care. Not that his family would ever let that happen.
As the car pulls up to the quaint house I once called home, a sense of familiarity washes over me. I step out, and my heels click against the cobblestone path as I make my way to the front door. The key slides into the lock with ease, and I push the door open, stepping into the comforting embrace of the past.
Slipping out of my heels, I let out a sigh of relief as the tension in my body slowly fades away. I discard my black dress, trading it for a pair of comfortable jeans and a loose-fitting shirt. The fabric is soft against my skin, a stark contrast to the stiff and confining clothes I've been forced to wear.
The room is bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, painting everything in hues of gold. The bed, my old bed, calls to me, and I can't resist its allure. I slip under the covers and let the cool sheets soothe my skin. Laying my head on the pillow, I let out a long breath, allowing myself to relax completely for the first time in what feels like forever.
My phone rings, piercing the comfortable silence of the house. A smile crosses my face when I see Seraphina's name flashing on the screen.
"Hey, Sera," I greet her, my voice light and cheerful.
"Isabella," she sounds relieved as she speaks. "You sound...happy.”
"Yes, I do," I admit openly. There's no use in hiding it. She's one of the few people who truly knows what I've gone through.
"I would give you my condolences," she says, and I can almost see her smirk over the phone. "But we both know how much you despised Jackson, so I won’t waste my breath."
I chuckle at her statement. "No condolences needed, Sera. Actually, you won't believe what happened after the funeral."
"Oh?" She questions, her tone intrigued.
"Aurora. She had the audacity to confront me, blamed me for Jackson’s death, and slapped me across the face," I recount the encounter with a steady voice.
"You're kidding!" Seraphina shrieks, laughter bubbling up in her tone. "Please tell me you punched the bitch in the face."
