Identity [ON HIATUS]

8. Daisy Finds The Joy in Cursing

The funeral was wet. I'd never been to a funeral, but I knew that if it was warm and sunny, it would be weird. It would be rude. You're sad at a funeral; the weather should join in too. But it hadn't stop raining since that night. It seemed September was a cruel month, a month of rain and dark clouds and storms. And loss, the biggest loss in my life.

Instead of my umbrella of pastel blue, I stood huddled with my mom under a black tent-like one. Everyone was draped in every shade of black and looking dreary and willowy; Rose would have been proud. Apart from the thrashing rain, all that was heard was the sound of The Verve's Bitter Sweet Symphony. Sometimes, in a will, a person will write what they want their funeral to be like; what they want people to wear, what music to play, Rose and I didn't have anything like that. I may have been almost eighteen, but that's nothing really, is it? Seventeen; you've barely lived.

I didn't know if Rose had even liked that song with its violins and its harsh, philosophical words. It was a song mom and dad had liked in their twenties; whether it had any reminiscence of Rose's soul in it was unknown.

My grip around the umbrella grew stronger and I wondered whether to laugh or to scream. Was it selfish, to have a song that you like that may or may not have nothing to do with the deceased? At their funeral? Can you get into trouble? Can you report it? What would be the crime? Devaluing a funeral? Funerals were a selfless act; gathering around to pay respects to the deceased wasn't something people got joy out of, but it was necessary, it was needed.

And there I was, thinking about reporting my parents to the police because of a fucking song.

It had been a week since my world collapsed, and I'd already found the joy in cursing. I'd only done it out of pure anger and frustration, to really give it effect, but now, every sentence of mine was filled with anger and frustration, and so a curse here and there was incredibly important to me.

Now, Rose would have definitely been proud.

As the song played its last cord and the coffin was lowered, the crowd dispersed. Family members I barely knew formed huddles around my parents and comforted them in their time of mourning, but I was able to make my getaway through the gap in the black coats and hats. It's not like I couldn't bear the hugs and the well wishes, but I wanted to be alone.

I was never really alone until now. I wasn't a duo, I was solo, a one.

In the distance, I saw a shape, blurry and watery from the rain and it looked like an oil painting, black and soft around the edges. It was far, standing under a large tree, probably someone just sheltering themselves from the rain. They weren't imposing, not really. We were in a public place, making ourselves known, everyone was welcome.

I wanted to walk over; maybe it was someone I knew? Maybe it was a friend of Rose's, but they were too afraid to approach? There was only family at the funeral, none of the people Rose loved dearest. My parents didn't give Charlie a second thought; surely, it would have been disrespectful to invite him. It was his doing, his recklessness that brought death and destruction into Rose's existence.

I could have snapped my umbrella in half, could have screamed to the heavens. Charlie fucking Merchant. After all of this, he has everything, and I have nothing.

I sat in the back seat of my dad's car, my hair dry but my black tights soaked, as we drove home for the wake. I'd laid out bowls of nibbles with my mom and not said a word, afraid of my mouth forming the words I hate this. Because I did. I didn't want to think about Rose in this way; dressed in black with my head bowed down, with my great Aunt Sandra crying in the kitchen. Did Sandra even know her? I bet she still fucking called us 'the twins'.

Cursing, it still felt so good, on the tip of my tongue but never out loud, never so anyone could hear.

The wake ended, everyone left, and the house felt big and it felt empty. I was drifting from room to room, not wanting to retire to my bed and think about mundane things like homework and art club and Liam Litnicky. No, I was angry, lost, hollow.

And there I was, stood in the doorway of Rose's untouched room; clothes strewn on the floor and the strong smell of perfume still in the air. My fingers found their way spreading across her bedspread, her really gross bedspread which had not been washed for a good while. And there I lay, curled up on my dead twin's sheets.

So there's a bunch of new people reading my story, and I just want to say thank you so much and I hope you're enjoying it so far! Don't forget to vote if you liked it and any feedback is welcome!