I haven't said a word aloud today and I woke up 4 hours ago. I silently ate and checked my phone, I showered and picked out my clothes, I did my make-up and put said clothes on.
A black dress, nothing extravagant. It is a funeral after all. I didn't call or send a voice message to anyone, haven't sung a single song or said anything to myself for that matter. I could say I have been lost in thought all day. In thought about the funeral, about Lena.
Today was the first day I allowed myself to think about her death. We haven't had class in a week, so I had plenty of time to do so, but I just didn't want to.
Tawle gave us three weeks in total to recover. One has passed, so there are two weeks left.
I've been taking on double shifts at work, to not waste any time and get some extra cash, I could use it. I've also been working on those extra assignments Professor Stanley gave me to improve my grades in order to pass. They aren't that hard, just very demanding, time-wise. It's all right though.
I glance at my watch. It's 3:46 pm. I have exactly one hour and fourteen minutes left to get to the church. If I take the subway, which is my only option, it'll take me roughly forty minutes. I still have time, but I choose to go right now. The earlier the better, I think.
I leave and grab my coat, keys, purse, and phone.
As I am walking down the street, my relatively small heels clanking on the concrete, I notice a small piece of paper on the ground. It has the Blue's logo on it. I bend down to take a closer look and see that it has '20%' written in red ink. It's a coupon. Someone must've dropped it. I also notice three small holes, visible from the back of the coupon. That someone who lost it probably came in three times and got their discount.
The first person I think about is Sam, obviously. So, getting a bit excited, I pick the paper up and turn it around. I read the three-letter name written by me.
Sam.
He must live around here. How come I never noticed him? I pocket the coupon, (yes, my dress has pockets) because I think about getting it back to him. He goes to Tawle, so he probably got an invitation to the funeral too. Maybe I'll get to see him today and give it back. Even if it's not usable anymore, he'll probably want it back, no?
I try to convince myself of a reason why I'd want to give the guy a useless piece of paper but I am aware that the only reason I want to return the coupon is for a small interaction, a chance to talk to him.
-
A few minutes later, I arrive at the station. My heels already hurt my feet, so I decided to sit down on one of the benches. I look over at the board, seven minutes until the next train. Not too bad, I can wait.
Waiting has never been a problem for me. On the contrary, I've always found it quite exhilarating. I had a specific amount of time to pass, and I killed it by zoning out and thinking about what my silly brain would lead me to, without actually consciously deciding what I was thinking about. I'd start somewhere of my own choice, and end up somewhere completely different moments later.
This time, shockingly, I choose Sam as a starting point. His eyes, shielded by round glasses slightly remind me of Harry Potter. I was a Harry Potter superfan as a child. I read the books and watched the movies maybe a million times. Opposed to the popular opinion, Ron Weasley was my favorite of the three. I think he was actually a lot smarter than people give him credit for. People always do that to underdogs. They always create villains by the mere action of assuming. Assuming only leads to misconception, which in its turn leads to miscommunication and then, catastrophe. Catastrophe is what I felt was coming ever since I was a child. Ever since that happened, I always had a lingering feeling of impending doom, only waiting for the right moment to turn the corner and greet me one more time, only this time to declare my end.
The train rolls in as if on cue, preventing me from further thought. I get a bit repulsed at the thought of going in, given the overflowing crowd. I quickly look up at the board to see if the next train comes in soon when I'm greeted with a luminous 23-minutes staring back at me. Against my want, I walk in.
Of course, there isn't anywhere to sit, or anything to hold onto for that matter, when the train lunges forward, tripping me and making me bump into a stroller with a baby behind me. I profusely apologize to the baby who started crying, and to the mother who is partly glaring at me and trying to hush her child.
Just great. Forty minutes of this and then another of funeral. Is it even forty minutes? I've never been to a funeral, even to my own father's, so I don't really know.
-
Thirty-eight minutes later, I'm in front of the towering doors of the church. I'm early of course. I push them with the force of my whole body.
As I'm walking in, I'm penetrated with the feeling of grand magnificence. I hear my heels echo against the stone walls, the colors of the tainted windows filtering the sunset light, casting rainbows onto the altar. On the sides, statues of saints with soft eyes, gazing upon me, analyzing my soul, my very being. As if they know what lies within me, the darkest secrets I have willingly muffled deep inside, barring them from ever showing their face, or raising their voice.
A few feet away from me, the casket, open. I advance. Lena's lifeless corpse lies there dressed up, all pretty with her red hairpin, but empty. Looking down at her, I stare at her long lashes, half-expecting them to flutter open and reveal the joke that her death is. She's just sleeping, I tell myself.
I think I stood there for a good five minutes, contemplating, gazing at her shell, when it finally hit me.
She's not coming back. I can't control her fate. She did the one thing I thought she wouldn't do.
She died.
In a few hours, she'll be underground, never to be seen again, only remembered by pictures and a tombstone that reads: "Lena Hatcher, beloved daughter, friend, and human".
I suddenly feel dizzy, bile rising up in my throat. In a fit of panic, I run out, leaving Lena, the colors, and the statues behind, following me with disapproving eyes.
I put my hand on the stone wall beside me and spill my insides. I watch as my meals fall onto the gravel, mixed with my tears as I violently sob, making me hurl more.
God.
A hand rests on my back as I dry heave, tears still streaming down my hot face. The hand rubs up and down, a soft voice whispering reassuring nothings.