Tempted | Kai Parker

thirty two: black bird bye bye

As much as I wished time would've just stood still, the world mercilessly moved on despite my protests.

And I couldn't seem to work out how. Everything had changed, my whole life had crashed down around me, and yet, here I was. The days went by just the same, except he just wasn't here to see them.

The world didn't need James Walker to survive.

But I did.

And every moment of my life that passed by without him in it, was a fate worse than death. It never got easier. I never felt a glimmer of hope for the future or had determination that one day I might be normal again.

I knew I'd never be okay again.

Not really. Not when I knew I'd never speak to him again. That I'd never see him again.

I kept hoping that by some miracle he'd come back. That he was just under some supernatural spell, or maybe that someone had gotten into my head and planted the whole horror in there just to mess with me.

But I knew it was little more than a foolish fantasy.

It was all real.

He was really dead.

And today was the day of his funeral. The day where I'd have to accept reality and say goodbye to my father forever.

And I didn't want to say goodbye. I didn't want the 'closure' that a funeral was supposed to give, or to allow myself to move on once he had been put to rest.

I wanted to think about him all the time.

I couldn't let go.

My father was stitched into every single thought I had and every action I made. I couldn't even bear to let one second of my day pass without thinking of him.

I felt as though it would have been a disservice to him if I didn't. I needed to think about him all of the time to keep his memory alive. Because if I didn't, who would?

Which meant that in the week since he had died, I hadn't done much of anything at all. In fact, if it weren't for all the stuff I had to sort out, I doubt I would've spoken even once.

But no, I had to interrupt my time thinking about my father to plan his funeral. I had to pick out a coffin, write a eulogy, choose a minister, even decide what fucking flowers were the most funeral appropriate.

Like it mattered.

What mattered was that he was dead. Not the fucking needlessly material embellishments designed to make us all feel better about the whole thing.

And the funeral was only the start of my worries. There were lawyers, and bank accounts, and paperwork, and police reports that all needed seeing to.

But at least all of that was just speaking to some boring suits, who sorted their business and left.

What bothered me more was the fact the house was covered in brightly coloured bouquets and 'thinking of you' cards. Condolences from everyone who knew my dad.

And I understood the sentiment, but really, it was another feeble attempt at humanity's incessant need to cover up tragedy with frills and flowers.

I wasn't keen on the sympathy calls either. The ones where it was clear they were only calling to stem the guilt they felt for not saying anything at all. So, I let them all go to voicemail.

Which meant I hadn't really spoken to anyone all week, other than a few words to my friends when they came by to check on me.

And out of all of the people in my life right now, Caroline was by far my favourite. She came by every day, but she just sat in silence, just quietly reading a magazine, or eating lunch.