20 Questions

Chapter 5

I despise funeral homes and I really hate them these two days. Extended family and friends come in and awkwardly hug the family, followed by "I'm sorry for your loss." Nobody knows what to say at the funeral of a young person, especially not one that chose drugs over his own life and family. It's uncomfortable and my throat is tight with anxiety and grief. I find myself making a conscious effort to breathe in and out, struggling with the thick air surrounding me. It doesn't matter if I step outside, the air will be thick enough to chew anywhere I go. So, I stand here numb, tugging at these stupid panty hose and uncomfortable shoes.

Whoever decided you needed to dress up for a funeral is a trifling whore.

I walk up to the casket, something I've been avoiding all day. The funeral home has done a good job with his makeup, as weird as that is to say and he's dressed as handsome as he can be laying in a casket. My aunt had purchased a nice shirt and jeans to put him in. I overheard her telling my mom that he had no nice clothes anymore because he would sell them for drug money. My heart broke all over again when she told us that everything he owned fit in a small cardboard box.

I place my hand on his, but the comfort isn't there.

It's not him, it's not his hand.

It's the cold shell of a body without a warm soul to fill it.

Hot tears burn my cheeks when I realize that he really isn't coming back to me. I suppose the finality of death comes to people in their own unique way and at different times. Standing here in front of the casket was my time. It's the moment that every happy childhood memory is tarnished with the image of a stiff body and caked-on makeup, the realization that those plans we made for our kids building sand castles together on the beach were nothing more than broken promises. Low sobs roll out like the ocean waves we crashed into when we were kids. The realization is suffocating in every sense of the word and even the soft caress of my mother's hand on my back is no consolation. As she wraps her loving arms around me, the tears fall faster. An unwelcomed audience gawks at us and unleashes their genius comments like the observant fucks they are.

"Oh, poor thing."

"They were so close."

"She's taking this really hard."

My head is dizzy, my legs tremble beneath me and there's a strong possibility that my already-broken heart can't handle another second of this stress without causing me to black out. Afraid that I may collapse, I find a bench nearby and try to drown out the voices around me.

Soft music fills the corners of the funeral home, synchronized to the slideshow of pictures my mom put together for this torturous occasion. I try to find solace in these pictures of him at a happier time in his life - before the drugs took him down. I hear people talking about how devastated they are, people that didn't know him and love him like I did. It's wrong and selfish of me to downplay their emotions, but I can't help it so I just sit here quietly, fiddling with the red and blue-beaded bracelet Jansen made for me when we were thirteen.

Through my emotional thoughts, I hear Little Miss Crazier Than Cat Shit and wonder how Jansen ever stood to listen to her nails-on-a-chalkboard voice. She's conversing with a group of people that I vaguely recognize from school. I hear her say, "Heroin and drug addiction are such an epidemic and people don't understand. It needs to stop. Too many young people are dying and it's a real shame."

This bitch. An epidemic that isn't understood? Are you stupid? Of course I understand it. My heart is shattered because my best friend chose heroin over me. You didn't even care that much about him, you are only here for show. Young people dying is a shame. It's also a shame that I didn't slam your face into the wall when I saw you walk into this funeral home.

I consider walking over there and confronting her, but I am physically and emotionally drained. I don't want to make a scene at an already-terrible situation so I get up and go into another room.

The service was nice and I managed to give my speech without a total breakdown. My legs wobbled throughout my delivery, my voice strained with emotion. I only started crying once during it so I was proud of myself for that. I tried to make people laugh, talking about all the ridiculous things that Jansen did because I know that is what he would have wanted. He was the life of the party and he wouldn't have tolerated people sitting around sulking, sobbing and snotting. I was relieved when everything was over because I was more than ready to go home and get away from all these people. There's only so many times that you can tolerate the roundabout way people would try to determine his cause of death.

"Heroin, fuckheads! He overdosed on heroin. So, you can take your judgment and shove it right up your pretentious asses," I scream out as I stand on a chair in the middle of the visitation.

Ok, I didn't really do that, but I wanted to.

It was the family's dirty little secret, nobody wanting to admit that their perfect little image was bulldozed by addiction.

Addiction: the disease that never discriminates.

It doesn't care if you are from the projects or a mansion on the hill. It touches the weak, the powerful and the unknowing. It weasels its way into broken families, tightknit church communities, Hollywood socialites, kindergarten teachers and hard-working citizens. It sinks its claws into anybody that will show it attention like a clingy, co-dependent lover with low self-esteem. A vicious hurricane that destroys everything in its path with no remorse, no regrets, no warning and zero apologies.

I didn't care to confess after the tenth person would scrunch their nose and lean close like I was telling them the details of some covert FBI operation. I had no qualms about filling them in because it is what it is. Let them take their judgmental asses back home and call all their friends to gossip about the black sheep of our family. I don't give a damn. That's all they really want anyway, something to gossip about, but they try to mask it as concern.

Sorry, dipshit, but your concern is a day late and a dollar short. What's done is done.

I am an absolute ray of sunshine today and I fucking know it. I despise being around a lot of people on a good day, but you throw my best friend's death, sleep deprivation and low blood sugar into the mix and what you get is a depressed, filthy-mouthed 5'6 blonde who is flying her bitch flag high and proud.

As I climb in my truck and buckle myself in, Hayden herself walks in front of my vehicle.

If I ran her over and then reversed and then ran over her again, would anybody really miss her?

Asking for a friend.

It would definitely rid the world of one less drama queen. Yeah, I definitely need to get home before I end up on LivePD with a mascara-streaked face, screaming "Cash me outside, how bout dat!"

It was gloomy and overcast that day, just like my mood. When I entered my bedroom, what I saw next brought tiny goosebumps to the surface of my flesh. The dense gray clouds parted momentarily to let the sun beam through the window and little bursts of rainbows speckled the bed and light blue walls. It was serene and beautiful - the eruptions of yellow, blue, violet and indigo bringing color to the stagnant black cloud that hung unforgivingly above my head.

A rose-colored hummingbird buzzed outside my window and I think back to an article I read once. It said if a hummingbird lands on you or visits your home after the death of someone close, it is a signal that the departed soul is trying to reconnect with you in the form of a hummingbird.

Jansen.