Don't Go. (EDITING)

Chapter 22

 The dress lays on my bed. A yellow sticky note is stuck to the front. I pick it up in my pale fingers, and read it.

Camellia,
Get ready, Lorne is picking you up at 2:40. I love you.
-Mom

I fold the note neatly and let it float from my hand to the cold ground. I turn my head back to the dress. My hands slide down the front, following the groves of the lace. Flipping it over, I grasp the three buttons down the back. My fingers weave them apart, than I step into the fabric. The dress is fits perfectly, and is extremely breathable. I reach my arms behind me, bending uncomfortably, to button up the back.

I look at the mirror across from me, finally hung on the wall. Dark purple rings hang from my eyes, and my lips are just as colorless as my face. I pull my light orange hair over my left shoulder, brushing my cold fingers through the strands silently.

I take one last look at my dress, before leaving my bedroom.

Walking down the stairs, the house is quiet. Mom, Dad and Piper are already on there way, stopping to pick up fresh flowers from the store before they get to the funeral.

My fingers brush the wall as my feet step down the stairs, hushed by the pictures of smiling faces still waiting to be hung, leaning against the wall on each step. The wooden floor creakes under me as I walk to the large bay window in the livingroom. I bend my knees and lean into the soft cushions of the couch. My thin, over the knee, black socks, wrinkle as they are pressed into the fabric of the couch.

My dress doesn't gather in any place, as it floats around my walking frame. I reach the door as Lorne does, and open it. Without a word, I wrap my arms around his neck, throwing myself into him softly. After half a second, his arms loop around me too. I feel his warm breath on my neck as he sighs heavily.

He is dressed smartly. A simple grey button down, a black tie around his neck, with black slacks. His hair is brushed professionally. His eyes are sad, and rimmed with the same purple bruises as me.

We unwrap ourselves from each other, and Lorne grabs my hand. He and I walk to his Mustang. The sky has decided to be grey, and only let a limited amount of sunlight through. Just enough to call it day time. The air is almost crisp; odd for late summer day.

Lorne drives the car at a normal pace, unlike the amazing speeds he would push it to before the funeral was even a thought in anyone's mind.

The highway is almost empty, and the oddly slow ride drags on with an unreasonably sluggish velocity.

The funeral home's parking lot is almost half full. I spot Jett's car, and Mom and Dad's car, and a few other cars that I recognize from school and around downtown. Lorne parks the car, and as we step out, I clutch Lorne's hand for life.

Inside, the air is stuffy. The carpet is a dark, purply color. The walls are painted a dark grey, with bright white trim. A large circle table sits in the center of the room we step into. On top, is a large bouquet of flowers of all different colors and shapes. They are very pretty, and the strong pollen scent makes my nose tingle.

Small notecards lay on the table beside the bouquet. I step forward, and grab one. On the front, it says the funeral home name, and Lorne's dad's full name, with a buisiness photo of him.

"Oh Camellia! Lorne, dear!"

I look up to see Lorne's mom in a long black dress run up to us. Several tissues are held in her hands. Her arms fall around me in a large hug.

"I'm so glad you came!" her voice is sad, and quiet. I nod kindly, and she grabs my free hand with her gloved one. "Come, in here." She gently pulls us through a long hallway, and into a large, open room.