I had the realisation in the car, staring out at the bleak miserable rainy countryside on the way to my mother's funeral that people wanted to keep moving, to keep doing things—anything to forget the black hideous shadow that lurked in the dark, waiting.

It annoyed me.

The constant need to keep doing things. To forget.

Like the tap of a finger on a steering wheel while you wait in rush hour traffic or the flick of a burning cigarette as you wait for the news that you have lung cancer, and it's bad—like stage three bad.

I didn't see the point in it, the wallowing in self-pity waiting for your demise because while the world decides to forget that death is apart of life someone has got to be around to remember and that someone is me.

At least I thought it was and that's what I told myself but soon enough I would decide to forget as well.

I looked out the car window, through the gaps in the icy splotches of rain. The day was dark and miserable.

Like it always was.

The trees me and my father passed on our way to the cemetery were nothing but skeletons blowing in the raging wind, their roots held firm by the hard-icy grip of dark soil. The branches swayed and bent and bowed like fanatic worshippers.

I looked at those trees and saw myself, cold and alone, bending and bowing to the will of the world.

I sighed through my nose, the air causing part of the glass to fog up, I wiped at the window, this time when I looked out I didn't see the trees or the wind or the rain, I saw myself, my reflection staring back—

I looked away.

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I looked up at the rusted, peeling black paint of the imposing metal gates of the cemetery. They were wide open, beaconing me into there embrace. The wet gravel that crunched under my feet whispered and hissed, telling me that I would be next to enter—to never leave.

I hissed back.

A strong hand wrapped around my waist.

I looked up.

My father stared down at me, his curly chestnut hair glistened with the last of the sprinkling rain.

His smile was sad, his green eyes sparkled with tears like liquid diamonds, his face creased with wrinkles that held wisdom not age.

I looked away.

I didn't smile sadly, my face held nothing but hate and disdain and my eyes didn't sparkle with tears but the sort of triumph that only comes from winning a long-fought battle.

I knew that I should have felt bad, disgusted even, but I couldn't create feelings that were never there.

"Soph?" He questioned, his eyes held mine, the same pine green as his.

I didn't respond, though I heard his voice and the clear shake in it, I looked away at the pain in his face.

"Sophie?" He questioned again, his voice rising ever so slightly.

I ignored it.

his hand moved from my waist, the sturdy grip of it landing on my shoulder, causing me to stop.

"What?" I questioned back.

He hesitated.

"What is it, Dad?" I ask again, this time I look up at him, my eyes staring into his, unblinking.

"are you ok?" he asks.

me okay? oh, I'm just fine, perfect actually. I f you want to know the truth I've been waiting for this stranger I called mother to cark it for a while. so yeah, I'm just great, thanks for asking.

though my mouth didn't form the words I desperately wanted to say, the truth I wanted to spill to the world.

they betrayed me.

"No Dad, I'm not okay, my mother just died!" I yell-whispered.

I willed tears into my eyes, I formed my mouth into a pathetic quivering line, I even went so far as to beat my fist against my dad's sturdy chest, the heart that bet beneath was anything but, it was a mushy mess of muscle and blood.

I leaned my head against his chest and wailed, my long black hair, courtesy of my wretched mother fell across my face, tears made it stick to my cheeks.

"SHE'S DEAD DAD! I bellowed into him, my fist thumped against skin and bone.

I knew that I had won by the warm arm that wrapped around me and the other that tangled its self in my hair.

I continued to cry my fake tears, the lie I had spewed stuck to my mouth like glue.

I smiled into my father's chest when he whispered sweet nothings in my ear.

I believe it was a convincing performance.

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The funeral was like most others, dark and foreboding; full of death.

I was the only one in attendance that didn't cry with genuine grief, the only one that let slip out rolling tears that glistened with lies, of hate and suffering for all the years of torment.

My hands shook by my sides, I gripped onto my flowing black dress.

To anyone that looked my way they would think I was trembling with the restraint of holding back tears, but truth be told I was holding back all the aching hurt and anger that had buried it's self inside me.

but no one would know that.