DAZED AND CONFUSED | VANCE HOPPER

.Chapter 014.

THE FUNERAL WAS SMALL and private. Emmaline's casket was tiny and baby blue, white flowers painted on the polished wood, daisies set perfectly atop the closed doors.

All that showed was a population of four, plus the priest and the funeral home workers. Vance, his mother and I, all sat on the right side pews of the chapel, my mother on the left, crying alone.

We've never been religious, yet I found myself praying for God, if he's there, to change places with I. Me not her. Me not her. Me. Not. Her. I don't deserve to live, but Emmaline doesn't deserve to suffer alone with my mother. What would she do if I weren't here? What will I do now that she's gone?

I only went back home once over the past two days, and that was to pack up clothes I needed for everyday life and the funeral. My mother wasn't home, and by the drousy look on her face, I'd assume this was the first morning she'd spent at the house.

Way to go, mom. I thought. Drink all of your worries away!

No one paid attention to the priest until he called the pallbearers to the alter. Three or the funeral boys stood, accompanied by Vance, who rose beside me, after squeezing my wrist reassuringly.

That's when I lost it. The sobs rolled in like a tidal wave, tears falling in a steady stream down my cheeks, into my lap.

"Shh, baby," Mrs. Hopper rubbed my back carefully, allowing my head to fall on her shoulder. "It's alright, it's alright. We ought to stand now. Out of respect for Emmaline."

I nodded and stood, watching Emma's casket get carried through the funeral chapel. Claws grabbed at my heart, scratching at my conscious, tearing away all emotion.

We followed the casket in a line, first my mother, than Mrs. Hopper, to keep my mother from me, as I followed. Ma never looked back, but I watched her shoulders stiffen through her sheer-black blouse. She wore a white bra and a white skirt so she stood out. At her own daughter's funeral.

I cringed, blood boiling. She makes everything about her. I wanted to curse her, scream her name and mix it with vain. My stomach churned with an anger that krept up my throat, threatening to jump out.

Mrs. Hopper looked back at me, holding her hand out. I took it carefully. She squeezed it. The rage slipped away.

The town graveyard covered at least twenty acres of land, broken-down gravestones, and grown-over weeds hiding the memory of long-deceased members of the town. It wasn't hard to spot the bright hunter colored tent and the pile of dirt beside a six-foot-deep hole in the earth. Emma's blue coffin stood out harshly against the green, a shiny beacon of hope against rot.

I thought of Emmaline in there, decaying, six feet under, skin melting away to bone, bone turning to dust. I rehashed my memories of the summer child, blonde hair shining in the sun, bright white smiles, flowers in her hair. This is how I want to remember Emma, happy and satisfied, not bloody and broken on the side of the road. Yet that's how I see her. That's how I hear her. Her blood curdling scream echoing in my head like a broken record.

I had cried my eyes dry at the funeral, no tears were shed at the burial. My mother didn't even show. Vance and I sat in two black chairs and watched as my sister's casket was lowered into the ground, and covered with dirt. Vance's mother stayed upright, squeezing my shoulder occasionally to ensure my stability.

Before I could think, she was buried, the funeral service gone. My heart ached with a gaping hole, with no way to replace it. No needle and thred, nor band-aid or cast could mend the crack in my soul.