twisted beautiful things

xiii. melancholy

all novie here :')

xiii. melancholy

' my condolences 

i'll shed a   t e a r   with your family

i'll open a bottle up

pour a   l i t t l e  bit out in your memory

i'll be at the wake, dressed in all black

i'll  c a l l   o u t   y o u r   n a m e,   but you won't call back

i'll send a flower to your mother when i say goodbye

cause baby you're  d e a d   t o   m e '

(melanie martinez)

novella

It's always a peculiar thing, when a person dies.

People sigh, they shake their heads, they weep a tear or two, and then they move on. And the person that had been buried rots under the ground until the pictures of them on the mantle are replaced and they are nearly forgotten.

Not to say people should grieve forever. I am simply observing that nothing ever changes. The death of a precious human being is never avenged, no dramatic change to the system occurs. They might put 'report bullying' or 'suicide is never the answer' signs up around the school, but who is going to listen to a poster when they can't even listen to their body's natural instinct to stay alive?

People are dying. People are dying, and people are weeping, and people are crumbling, and we have nothing to show for it except a tree carved with initials and a few gravestones.

"Are you okay?" Kenny quietly asks, following close to my side as we enter the chapel at nine in the morning on a Monday, dressed in all black.

They'd cancelled all the classes because of Elsie's death.

As if skipping out on my medical terms quiz is going to make her come back. As if receiving a day off will make up for the damage we have caused.

"I should ask you that," I whisper back, holding her hand in between mine, stroking her sepia skin with my fingers.

Kenny looks away silently, her pearl earrings swinging at her ears.

Amir, Atticus, and Julian are leading the way down the aisle, searching for a pew sizable enough for the five of us.

Figures in black clothing wander about the golden-rimmed nave; I'm wearing a knee length black dress with lace sleeves, my hair in a curly low ponytail. The melancholy that lingers in my soul had prevented me from putting much more effort into my appearance.

Melancholy. Yes, that's the term I'd use for the mood and tone in this place. The early morning light shines through the stained glass, reflecting glowing colors on the pews and the statues of various saints scattered about the room. There's a low murmur, as people whisper to each other, like a colony of peaceful bees. Trying but failing to be respectful of Elsie's parents, who are by the open casket, conversing to Julian's parents.

I wouldn't use the term melancholy to describe the expression written on Elsie's mom's delicate face. Anguish and utter despair lingers in her red eyes and is shown through her furrowed eyebrows and red tipped nose, her slim figure swathed in black leaning on her husband. Elsie's father keeps a mask on, sealing up his feelings. He remains stoic and still, like a brooding statue as he conversed quietly with Mr. Lopez.