Mr. Bishop was a sweet old man, never hurt anyone or anything, everyone knew him on the square. People from out of the square even knew him, he was kind, giving, inspiring. He helped at the homeless shelters in the city, did prayer every Sunday, walked amongst his people in the pews, even gave kids more than they paid for in his sweetshop.
He didn't deserve what happened to him. All he ever did was help people, and yet God takes the good ones. Leaving us with the average do-nothing joes and the bad people. Like the prettiest flowers are the first to be plucked, our garden is slowly filling with weeds.
It shouldn't have been sunny when we buried him, the day should have been as dark as our worlds felt. He shouldn't be gone.
Miss Mary, a 60 year old widow who rented the apartment above his shop said some nice things during the ceremony, but I kept my head down out of respect and never once looked up. Not even when her voice broke, or the crowed mumbled, or when the reverend helped her back to her seat. The heat made everyone uncomfortable but no one shifted, fidgeting, grumbled.
There were worse things than the stifling heat we could soon escape. Like the inevitable end we were baring witness too.
Dad made the funeral, it was strange to see him paying respects, all suited and booted. Larissa wasn't even dangling from his arm. He looked haggard, like life's weighing him down again. At least he didn't have a bottle in his hand. He must have really thought something special of Mr. bishop.
Mom didn't know where to look, she avoided the casket like it was the plague, which essentially it should've been since it's the plague of death, and acted like dad didn't exist.
I was just here to lay down some roses and pay my respects to a man that once carried me home with a bad back because I skimmed my knee running into his shop too fast and missing the step.
He was a nice bloke, he deserved better.
The wake wasn't as low key, dad dropped off the wagon at the first stop, downing booze like it was oxygen. Mom hooked up with Pete, an old teacher I had, and the music picked up so everyone was dancing.
I think I left around midnight, but who knows, my phone died around 9 and it felt like a lifetime had stretched out since then. I gave my best to Susan, Bishops weeping daughter who looked just about ready to pop some Xanax, and wrapped up nice and warm for the trek home.
I don't know why the taxi's weren't running, or why I never saw a bus pass, but the night wasn't as creepy as it could have been. I could still hear the music from the wake when I felt like I was being watched.
I turned to look behind, just a quick glance, but who really expects to see anything other than maybe an innocent walker going about their business too? It wasn't particularly hair raising, and so I ignore it.
I reach the front door, push the key in the lock, and it opens easily with a breeze. I know I definitely locked it when I left this morning.
Instinctively I slip off my heels, easier to sprint away without them, and pop my head from the frame quietly. It's solid darkness inside and all that's making a noise is the hum from the fridge, the ceiling fan in my room down the hall, and the beeping of the alarm round the back. I slip inside, press in my code, and flick on the lights.
The place doesn't look disturbed, but the further down I walk the clearer it becomes someone's been in my home, and they were desperate to find something. The TV is on its side on the floor but not stolen, even my MacBook is here, plugged to the charger with the little green light flickering. The scatter cushions on the couch are on the otherside of the room and the French doors are both open wide. The breeze from the sea front blows through the house and the salt air clings to the back of my throat.
Nothing looks missing, just dislodged, which I hate even more since now I've just been created another cleaning job. I like order, balance. It's driving me mad, the mess of it all. I drop my coat on the couch and shut the doors with a bang, click the lock and slide the deadbolts into place. The beeping alarm is still going off, but it sounds like a drained battery and is slightly distorted. It's busted, wires poking out the sides. I shut it off and decide the mess can wait, I've no energy, physically or emotionally, to do it.
Everything's secure by the time I slide under the covers, setting my alarm for 6am. I've left a voice mail on jack cassington phone, he'll probably come round and take my statement in the morning, which is gonna be brutal because he likes to raid the fridge of every call out he does. I'm not looking forward to that.
I reach over to put my jewellery in the draw and find the cold side of the pillow, ready for blessed sleep, when my damn phone pings.
Reluctantly I scan the message and drag myself out of blessed comfort, crying on the inside as I slide back into some jeans and a jumper, wishing this day would just end already.
Talk about wretched luck.
