𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨

funerals suck

CHAPTER ONE
"funerals suck"

Teenage death is a dreary thing. A drag, really. The shock almost hits you harder than the misery; wow, teenagers, annoying as they are, aren't immortal? Who would've thought? It was like Heathers, except nobody was killing each other, the guys weren't as hot as Christian Slater, and people actually liked the deceased.

Loved, would be more like it. Rosie Kramer was the apple of everybody's eye, a real beauty queen. Miss American Pie kicked the bucket when everybody thought she'd outlive them, purely because she seemed so perfect.

I never met her- shame, but that doesn't matter. When you lived in a town as small as we did, everybody knew Rosie Kramer. I was two years her senior- she was sixteen which was my brother Keith's (not to be confused with Keith Richards, he'd introduce himself with, because he's vain like that and thought himself comparable to Keith Richards) domain. It is a weird thing for a sophomore to die.

Theories about her death came flying around the school the minute it was announced like it wasn't once a living, breathing person people were talking about. The latest theory Keith heard was suicide, but as we stood in that church, my dress itching my thighs, we found out it was some type of heart disease. Death receives no adequate sympathies.

I felt like a fake standing there, listening to the priest speak over the sounds of people sobbing and sniffling and trying to avoid looking at any pictures of Rosie which generously decorated the place. Her smile, once bewitching to anyone who happened to fall into its view, now seemed haunting.

Of course, with the death theories, came talking about the family. Her brother was pulled out from school and seemed to drop off the face of the earth until the day of the funeral. I recognized him from behind- his hair long, to his shoulders, and his back flexed rigidly underneath his suit which seemed at least a size too small. Like Rosie, everybody knew of him even if they didn't know him. Class clown, Mr. Buddy Kramer.

Buddy's normal charismatic spirit was dimmed so much that day, it still felt unnatural even though it was understandable. I watched him throughout the funeral; he was not doing anything particularly interesting, I just needed something to look at. He only moved three times- once, to pat his father comfortingly on the shoulder, twice, to give his sobbing mother a shoulder hug, and thrice, to lay a single guitar pick upon the casket. When he turned to return back to his spot, I caught a glimpse of his face; solemn, his strong jaw clenched tightly, and his eyebrows furrowed. Not a tear did leak from his face, no, he was too sad to cry.

"Selene," My mother broke me out of my Buddy-staring trance, nudging me with her elbow towards the aisle, "Go lay the flowers along with the others now!" I found flowers an ironic gift to give at funerals- don't they know flowers die, too? Nonetheless, I made my way up with the other girls, hands clenched tightly around the assortment of white lilies. I felt what felt like the eyes of a thousand upon me as I bent down in front of the casket, laying the bundle on the stairs so I wouldn't disturb. I couldn't imagine what the Kramer family felt like- they had them like a zoo, people staring at them, gauging their reaction and every movement. I felt guilty about it as I made my way back to sit, especially when Buddy's eyes followed me; his eyes that were once full of light now looked harsh and cold- I looked away quickly.

As my mom was tugging me and Keith out the door, in the rush of people waiting to leave the horrible ambiance a church has, I looked over my shoulder once more. I wasn't quite sure what called me to look at him when I didn't care at all before, but something was, and who was I to argue with it? He was alone now, somehow sadder looking than before, sitting on the stairs. It was just him, and his head resting against the casket, eyes closed and holding the rose pinned to his suit jacket delicately as if it would crumble at his touch. I knew what it symbolized; a rose for Rosie.