Down The Hole

Author's Note: This is a dark short story, dealing with loss and grief, and the choices other people make that effect us. It is very close to my heart, so while I welcome reviews, stars, and questions, I would greatly appreciate it if negativity is taken elsewhere. Thank you.

Down The Hole

On the day of her funeral, I wanted it to rain.

I wanted the earth to shake, the skies to scream, the storm to strike everyone so they felt the same way I did.

Like a cold fist was clenched around my heart, daring me to breathe if I could.

It didn't rain. The universe wouldn't cry for me; it wouldn't stand still and let me catch my bearings. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right – it just was.

So instead of standing beneath a downpour, chilled to the bone, we stood in black under a hot sun and pleasant breeze. Kids came past on their bikes, the laughter carrying beyond the black gates and into my mind.

"Come on, Melly! It's not that far. You're just being lazy," She teased, pedaling faster. I groaned.

"It's summer, I have a right to be. How much farther?"

"Look up from the ground and you'll see." I did and she was right. We veered off the sidewalk, leaning our bicycles against a tree.

"I've got to hand it to you, when you pick an adventure, you pick an adventure," I said in awe, admiring the rolling hills below, tiny pockets of forest scattered about.

I caught her eye and grinned.

"Race you!"

"Melissa, sweetie," my mother mumbled, tugging my arm. I sighed and took my seat, staring blankly ahead as the service began. My eyes found the casket, long and pale, my wild arrangements of flowers sitting atop it.

"You know what flowers mean, right? You're into that stuff."

I shut my book and sat up, raising an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

She waved it off.

"Don't get defensive. Embrace your nerdiness." I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah, okay, I know a few. Why?"

A sigh escaped her lips as she twirled a lock of hair thoughtfully.

"Cameron Haeg gave me a bunch of flowers and I want to know if they mean anything,"

"He bought you flowers?!"

"What? No. He's a teenage boy, Mel, they aren't sentimental. He made a bunch of paper ones and then labeled what they were supposed to be."

"Well, what are they?"

She scrunched up her nose in concentration.

"Roses, Sweet-Pea, and Chrysanthemum."

"And you seriously think he meant something by it? Okay, okay," I added hastily to her look of irritation, "Roses are admiration, Sweet-Pea are for shyness, Mums are for secret admirers."

Tears pricked my eyes as I gave my bouquet a onceover.

White carnations and forget-me-not for remembrance, cosmos for peace; freesia for her spirit, yellow roses for our friendship, and buried in the center, pale amid the bursts of color, was a single tulip.