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Kit
8 Days Later…
Iscan the crowd as revulsion and grief roll through my belly.Mournersthat aren’t mourning at all, stand and watch with eager gazes that scream of greed and excitement.
A hundred sets of eyes track my every move; a decent turn out of family, I suppose, though only few are genuinely mourning and here to support me and my brother. The other ninety are simply enjoying the attention and hoping for some big reveal when the will is read.
Spoilers: there won’t be one.
Assholes.
I turn and look over my shoulder, to the open grave dug into the almost red dirt, and the coffin sitting on the blue straps that will eventually lower him into the ground.
The person inside is… was… my best friend.
He was also my dad.
The timber coffin is as plain as they come, because it’s all I could afford. Today’s service is at the graveyard. There will be no church portion, because I cannot afford it. The flowers on top of his coffin, I haggled over the price a few days ago. Although I want the best for my dad, I can’t afford to buy extravagance that will only be buried. I’m not flat broke, but I know the next few years of my life are going to be expensive.
My dad was a single parent, and although I moved out of home a few years ago, my younger brother Jack, who’s still only fifteen, is still in need of a guardian, a home, and money to put food in his growing belly.
Once we leave here today, he’ll come to live with me.
It wasn’t a discussion we had. It was just assumed by all parties. Not that I mind – he’s my baby brother, after all.
My hands shake as I clutch to the single sheet of double-sided paper. I struggle to speak past the lump in my throat, but unable to stall any longer, I begin reading the eulogy and remember my dad’s short life. I’m not present, I’m not here. I speak on autopilot and recite words I hastily scribbled together late last night. It’s the first time I’ve ever had to read at a funeral. Actually, it’s the first funeral that I’ve had to participate in at all, and I’m literally shaking in my boots.
My best friend says its shock; and she’s probably right, since I’m so cold, my teeth chatter and my body trembles from toes to hair. Casey stands a few feet to my left and lends her strength, but her distance – whether one foot, or six – leaves me front and center, and all alone.
I hate it here.
I hate these people.
I hate that he died in the first place.
I look to my right, to Jack, as he stands shrouded in his tough guy attitude. He wears his anger as obviously as I wear my blouse, but I see his devastation. He’s a fifteen-year-old orphan, so I can’t entirely blame him for the asshole attitude he’s adopted.
I scan the crowd that spread out ahead of me. Familiar faces – cousins, uncles, aunts – though very few have ever supported us. My dad’s brother wears a scowl on his face and a five-day-old beard. I guess a funeral didn’t warrant shaving, or anything more than casual jeans and a flannelette shirt. My Aunt Renee cozies up to a man half her age and blubbers into a tissue – but I see no tears in her eyes.
My cousins wear expressions of boredom, with their cellphones in hand and short skirts that barely cover their asses.
My dad had six siblings; most of which are here today. They’re waiting for this to end so they can get down to the business of drinking and bitching.
It’s a hobby of theirs.
My boyfriend’s mom and dad stand in the back with drawn expressions and good impersonations of sadness. They’re decent people; Max’s mom has helped a lot this last week. She provided a shoulder to lean on when I was ready to collapse, and sat with me while I planned a funeral I should have never had to plan for a man so young.
But of the hundred or so people here today, Max is conspicuously missing. Surprisingly, I’m not surprised about his absence, and that says a whole lot about the relationship I’ve been in for two years.
He turned distant after we found out Dad was sick in November, and that distance turned to flat out ghosting this month, as if my dad’s sickness was a nuisance for him. And I’ve been so busy caring for Dad and Jack, I haven’t had the time or energy to care.
We went from seeing each other several times a week for almost two years; dates, flowers, sweet words and silly flirting, and we’ve become this; nothing. No words. No comfort. Just an absent boyfriend, and a dead dad.
I read my notes and loathe every word that I speak. They’re nothing more than shallow sentiments, and they soothe no one.
Not even me.
