Every Cloud

Chapter One

I try not to think about it. I attempt not to process the fact that I'm sat in the city church, slumped on a woodworm-infested pew, directly opposite her. Quietened sobs rise around me, and although they're practically silent they're all that I can concentrate on. The service drones on, mundane and dull, I just know she'd hate it. She was the kind of person who'd want an exciting funeral; no formal black dresses and moping friends, but a bright dress code and one of those jazzy, retro vinyls she used to collect churning away in the background. I glance around my shoulder. Big mistake. I see one of Mum's friends, eyes raw with cascading tears, a snotty tissue clutched in her hand. She offers me a watery smile, whispers something inaudible, but I turn back so my eyes focus on my lap, my hair swishing over my face like a black veil.

My throat chokes up but I suppress the emotions down firmly. Instead I release the urge to express my despair by squeezing the paper program beneath my furled fingers. I hear the paper scrunch up in my hand and I clamp my eyes shut, trying to shut out the world - what's left of it for me anyway. I feel a warm, deft hand suddenly thread through my fingers and I hold on tight, as if I'm trying to suck the strength out of Zach's hand.

"It's okay to cry, you know." He whispers, the voice sounding muffled through my hair.

"It's not right, she wouldn't want me to. Not here." I whisper back, shuffling my position so I can lean my head against Zach's shoulder and bury my face in the sleeve of his plaid shirt. The world is dark and quiet with my face covered, the scent of Zach's cinnamon shower gel wafting up my nostrils, even stronger than the sickly lilies draped around the room, a constant reminder of where I am and who I'm mourning and who I've lost.

"I know. You didn't have to do this, you know. If you want to leave before the procession we can hop on a bus and head home..."

"No, I need to stay. It's my mother's funeral for God's sake!"

"Elle, we're getting up now, are you ready?"

"I guess so." I sniffle, using the sleeve of my black-knit sweater to drag across my face. I use my phone screen to check my reflection, I look awful; freckles extra noticeable against my drawn skin, mascara smears (even though the bottle promised it was waterproof) and it definitely looks as if I've been bawling my eyes out. I don't want anyone here seeing how torn-up I am from the outside, not considering the ton of pitiful glances I've already been given, so I lick my thumb and sort out my eyelids, teasing the black smudges off of my skin. Zach's hand is still grasped in mine so when he stands up I'm tugged along too. Mum's coffin goes hurtling down the aisle, carried by two broad-shouldered men, and I pull Zach along with me as I race after them, darting between couples and children until I reach the side of the wooden box. My legs feel weak and shaky, as if my bones have been extracted and replaced with long lengths of spaghetti.

"Please may everyone proceed outside for the final blessings." I hear a rumbling voice behind me, but his words mean nothing. I suddenly regret keeping my eyes averted for the entire time, yet I'm also glad Aunt Beth decided to organise it as an open-casket event. At least I'll get to see her one last time before six feet of earth separates us.

Her coffin is placed by a mound of freshly-dug ground, and Zach and I skid to a halt by the side of the casket. She doesn't look dead at all, more as if she's just in a deep sleep, like Sleeping Beauty or something. Aunt Beth has reapplied her makeup and dressed her in her favourite loose top, the one with pompoms lining the lower edge. She looks so normal, so normal, and that's when the tears finally roll down my cheeks and splash onto my pumps.

I pull off the silver ring from my middle finger and press it into my palm, imprinting my hand with the last gift she gave me. I glance around my shoulder at the crowd of black-swathed mourners, all puffy-eyed like me. Zach's hand remains rooted to mine as the coffin is lowered onto its catafalque, blessings being showered upon her from the mouth of the priest. From here I can see straight into the box. Her charcoal hair is pristine and combed down her front, making her look alien; I'd usually never see her without her hair in a twisted messy bun with a pencil or pen wedged through the middle of it.