The Boy and the Beast

5| eulogy

I loosen the silver tie wrung around my neck like a braced noose. The silk noose tightens around my neck with a sudden jerk. My throat is clogged up with cotton air, unable to levitate. 

I gulp, looking up at the alter. The auburn chapel walls climb high to reach for the silver atmosphere, stained windows breaking the rays penetrating the blanket of clouds into a million of sharp shards of light scattered across the pews.

At the altar, next to the preaching priest, is a chalk framed picture of a young, chivalrous boy. Soft ashen blonde waves coil on the boy's head. The frame of his head is narrow, his cheeks corrugated deeply, tanned ivory skin wrapping around his prominent jaw. His cheekbones are less dominant against the bicolor irises. One iris is rimmed emerald and the other a dark azure...

It's me. The picture is my high school yearbook picture, I still remember it. It's the exact day I received the football windbreaker—the day I was part of the official team. I was the first sophomore to be part of the official team.

I was so ecstatic, my life was made the day I got that jersey. I was one step closer to my dream, one step closer to my ultimate life goal. The achievement sitting on my bucket list since I could catch a ball, and half the box was checked.

I stand up from my spot on the edge of the pew at the back of the chapel, keeping my eyes on the portrait. It couldn't possibly be my funeral, could it?

I look at the first person I could find off the pew, which has to be the person I despise the most.

Jacqueline.

She weeps into her hands, dressed up in a starry raven dress. Her intake in breath is sharp when her gray haired husband rests a hand on her back, trying to solace the situation.

"I wish I could make things better with the child," she sobs, lifting her head up at the alter. Black stains taint her rose dusted cheeks, debris of mascara chunks scattered along the damp streaks over her cheeks.

"It's okay," he shushes, "you couldn't help it. He brought it onto himself."

I can't help but contort my expression into a scowl. I brought what onto myself? Is this even my funeral?

I convert my gaze before me to see my father step onto the stage in front to deliver a...eulogy.

My father is delivering my eulogy.

"Dad," I mutter, walking towards him. His bicolor eyes, the eyes I inherited, are stained red and puffy. His whole body is ridden with an earthquake amount of quivers, a piece of scrap paper lodged between his fingers. He hovers on the last step, running his thumb over his forehead.

He's a complete wreck.

After a second of hesitation, he breathes in, puffing his chest up and setting his shoulders. I've never seen my dad, a man as tough as the iron rods keeping a building up, the foundation to our house of family, so fragile before.

He places his weight behind the lectern, placing his piece of paper on it. He's dressed up as nearly as he ever can, a black button up and a blazer with matching slacks. He tilts his head forward, gripping onto the edge of the lectern, the rim of his cowboy hat blocking full view of his face.