la belle dame sans merci | carlisle cullen

41

Minerva had designated funeral wear. It was a number she'd picked up in the thirties, rifling through a dead man's closet. He'd been a smaller guy, about her size and she absolutely wore his own suit to the funeral. Those were different times but it was a nice suit, she'd held on to it. As morbid as the memory was, she regarded it fondly.

Getting ready for the wake— which for some ungodly reason, they decided to have a showing precede the funeral directly— Minerva felt like she was the one dressing the corpse. Taking a diligent shower early in the morning felt like anointing the body with oils and dressing herself after felt like putting on her Sunday best to wear in the box. The slacks fit as well as they ever had, fitting snug around her waist but falling loose on her legs. She'd retired the old blazer, mainly due to a cigarette burn in the lapel, and opted for a simple black button-up blouse.

Makeup never looked quite right on a cadaver, of course, it'd be worse if they went without. It resides in the uncanny valley, looking down at the deceased dressed up to look normal in the least ordinary of circumstances. Perhaps that's why her makeup wouldn't sit quite right. She took her concealer off twice before she was happy with it and the light dusting of brown on her lid was just going to have to look off-putting for the day.

The wake would span from ten to one and the funeral would be in the afternoon. Minerva had opted out of the first wake, chickening out once she was ready and settling into the couch for an bout of anxiety she couldn't shake. Carlisle had texted her later that day to find out if she'd be paying her respects that evening to which she came up with some baloney excuse.

There was no chickening out today— not if she ever wanted to show her face in Forks again. There's no way they could comprehend her reasons for being so disengaged so she had to preform. The performance of mourning was her least favourite part of it all. She didn't doubt that the feelings were real, people were devastated. Communal mourning is important for survival. The shaking hands, the hugging, the resigned but emotional "how are you holding up?" It all made her skin crawl. She hoped Carlisle could serve as her personal people repellent. Maybe the intimidation they felt for him would overrule their desire to talk to her. She hoped, at least. There was a chance he'd gone to the day before's way— in which case, they'd better have a second coffin ready down the hall.

Her necklace peaked out of her shirt as she gave herself a final check in the mirror before she slid her coat on. It seemed to look at her before she looked at it. She pressed her lips tight before she did up an extra button and called it good. Her hair hung over her shoulders, still drying in the air but taking on a slight curl as it did. The makeup was tolerable, covering up how deathly she looked underneath. She was as ready as she'd ever be.

With a sigh as she shrugged her jacket on and shouldered her bag, Minerva hit the road. The spritz of perfume and aroma of her shampoo was overtaken by the spark of a cigarette the moment she seated herself in her car. The fact that the little bastards killed millions of people a year was an irony not lost on the witch on her way to the funeral. Every light she had an absentminded hope that luck would take her into that statistic.

The drive was abysmal as the weather. A sprinkle of rain threatening downpour was very fitting but not ideal. Her cigarette had been puffed away before she'd even hit city limits, extinguished in the pull-out ashtray of the old vehicle.

Dragging her feet into the funeral home, she was uncomfortable before she even stepped through the door. There were quite a lot of people: some bustling around, others locked into small groups. She signed the guest book absentmindedly, smudging the ink as she wrote so all that was really legible was Min— A—ta. They'd figure it out, probably.

Forks was a ridiculously small town with a population just over 3000. When they said everybody knows everybody, it was true. Only Minerva wasn't everybody and she didn't know everybody. There were some familiar faces, those from the lodge were the only ones she could assign a name to. Others she recognized from the coffee shop or the grocery store, others not at all. She felt like an invader, an old wolf among the sheep.