how it feels to fly | jeonglix

01

You'd think that living among corpses would make a person quite at ease with the idea of death.

And in theory, Felix knows he should've accepted that one day, he'll close his eyes and never open them again—be it sooner or later. But even after making his home in a graveyard for the better part of five years, he still can't shake the slimy shivering that runs down the length of his spine whenever he steps outside the front door, and has to walk among moss covered headstones to reach the fresh, potent air of the living.

But still, everyday, he withers away with his eyes fixated on the graveyard from his bedroom window. People come by often, most of the time bearing flowers. They stay for a while, weep, talk to the wind in hopes of comforting themselves, and disappear again. Nowadays, he can recognise a lot of them: the middle-aged lady who waits at the gates from six o'clock every Sunday morning; a young child with his father, who sit together for an hour, before they leave with their heads bowed low and cheeks stained with tears.

Admittedly, the most interesting parts of Felix's weeks are the processions. He watches newly carved and freshly polished caskets be carried over pallbearers' shoulders and slowly—agonisingly slowly—be lowered into the earth.

It doesn't happen everyday, but today is one of those days.

The group of people surrounding the grave is definitely one of the larger groups he's seen. They swarm around like bees, huddled together wrapped in long black coats that they pull tighter over themselves to escape the bitter Autumnal weather. There's a young child, who sways on her feet and glances around with a clueless expression, a grin passing over her face when she spots a magpie gliding over their heads. The woman behind her grabs her arm when she stumbles on a rock, pulling her back to her feet and gripping her shoulders. The girl looks up to his window, and their eyes meet.

Felix leans back, away from the window to hide behind the wall, waiting a few seconds with bated breath to peer back out again.

Three people speak, two of whom seem to be the parents, and it feels like they stand at the casket head for hours. Each word looks to be interrupted by a sob, with an apology, before they carry on. The cycle repeats. Why are parents always the ones who speak at funerals, when surely all they can tell of their child is the tantrums they watched growing up, the parent's evenings and how they hopelessly tried to convince them to leave the ataraxy of their bedroom? Honestly, funerals that have non-family members telling stories are so much more interesting. At least, that's the case for the few Felix has eavesdropped on over the past five years.

Having finally finished, the parents stand hand in hand still trying and obviously failing to hold back their tears as the third person steps up to the front. Felix's back straightens. From the window, he doesn't see his face, the boy keeps his eyes on the ground the whole time, and recounts his words without a piece of paper to guide him. Analysing the crowds reactions, Felix's eyebrows furrow when he spots the parents glancing at each other and rolling their eyes. As for the boy, Felix doesn't hear his voice, but can almost sense the trembling as he fights to get through his stories. By the time he's stepped out of his view, there isn't a single dry eye in the crowd.

There are a lot of flowers thrown onto the casket today.

And soon enough they all leave, except for that boy.

Felix can't help but watch him for a little while, staring at his back and his hunched shoulders and his drooping head. There's something familiar about the way the boy loops his arms over his knees and slowly rocks back and forth, but Felix can't recall any memories. He shakes, and whether from the cold or crying it ripples through his body, and Felix feels pity wash through him. He wonders about his relationship with the dead... a brother? Sister? Lover? The thing is, he'll never get his answer. The boy will leave today and won't come back.