NECROMANTIC

twenty.

Rain was pouring.

The sky was a steel grey, and the droplets of water falling from above were thin as needles and almost felt as sharp.

Of course it was raining. It was a funeral, and it was the funeral of a good person. Even the weather was mourning for him.

My mom's arm was wrapped around me, holding me tightly against her, and with her other hand she continuously wiped her eyes, and attempted to hide the blotchy redness of her cheeks that crying had given her. My dad's hand was on my shoulder at the other side, a soft, but firm grip - reminding he was there for me. In his other hand he held a big, black umbrella, which he held over all three of us in an effort to shield us from the rain.

All around us - a lot of the faces familiar, some not - everyone else stood, huddled under black umbrellas, too.

Except for his mother.

She stood, soaking wet, rejecting all offers for shelter. Maybe she thought it was hide the tears streaking down her face. It didn't - her red eyes and the wobble of her bottom lip gave it away. Her light hair was darkened and hanging like a heavy curtain, her pretty black dress and cardigan soddenly clinging to pale white skin.

She stood at the head of the freshly dug and filled in grave, opposite me and my parents. Her eyes were mostly trained on the gravestone, but occasionally, they'd flicker up to me - and in them I saw hurt, confusion, blame and pity. She didn't know what to feel, about my role in all of this.

The pastor droned on, through the usual funeral rites, which I paid no mind to. They meant nothing.

I looked at the gravestone, and tried to read the words carved into the stone. I couldn't. I put that down to the fact my head was a mess - and it was raining hard, and my eyes were glassy with tears. It frustrated me, and I kept trying and trying - but my head started to hurt, and I just couldn't, so I gave up. Besides, what good would reading it do? I knew what would be on there. His full name. Date of birth to the date of his death. Loving son and brother. The usual bullshit.

Eventually, the pastor came to a finish and waved a hand at the congregation to depart.

His mother didn't move right away, though, and neither did I, despite my mom and dad trying to coax me into going. Instead, I brushed them off and told them I'd join them soon, before darting out from the protection of the umbrella and over to her.

Within moments, I was soaked through - my black skirt, shirt, cardigan and tights clinging to my skin, my black shoes squelching as they filled up with water and made their way over the soft, earthy grass. My hair was plastered to my face, and I pushed it back with frustration, shaking my head so that it now hung in ratty waves. But I didn't care.

"Helen." I said, when I was by her side. My voice cracked. "I'm so sorry."

"I've heard that so much." She said, her words soft - almost faraway. Off. They didn't sound like her. "But what have they got to be sorry about? They weren't the ones driving that car."

I didn't reply. How could I?

"He didn't suffer, did he?" she asked, before swallowing, and a sob hitching in her throat. "I mean, they said he died instantly..."

Again, there was no way I could reply.

"My baby boy." Her voice was broken, and she let out a moan.

"I'm sorry." I repeated, not knowing what else to do, or say.

Helen moved, then, turning to walk, and join everyone else. She put a hand on my shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. "It's not your fault." She said, but her eyes told me that she believed otherwise.