dedicated to alfa for being an amazing friend for more than two years now and just wow ily ily okAy
two.
He stares at the closed casket and he’s never been jealous of someone as much as he is at the person inside the casket.
Lying limply in the casket, his pulse stopped working for what he’s convinced to be forever, was Jasper Haxon’s best friend, Max Hills. Jasper sits at the very last row of the chairs lined up at the cemetery, his white shirt untucked and creased at the bottom, his socks are different shades of black; one piece pulled a little higher than the other.
He wears his black tennis shoes with dirt smothered on the toes.
His eyes – his eyes are dry like he had hung them on the laundry line for hours on a really hot summer day. He isn’t sure if the water pooled his eyes have evaporated as soon as they spilt or if they aren’t really there at all.
His hair sticks up at different angles, the color of hot chocolate dashed with cinnamon powder and whipped cream, stirred together to make a creamy beverage on a bone-chilling winter day; a beautiful, wonderful drink - but messes up your lips once you’re finished with it.
Today, Jasper Haxon is definitely a beautiful, wonderful mess.
He runs his hand through the labyrinth that is his hair and at one point, stopps and tries to rip a handful of it off his scalp. He cups his hands over his face, swallowing the hot tears from the inside.
Max’s girlfriend is giving her speech now, her face ghostly pale. She's reading from the text in her hand, once in a while steps back from the microphone to regain her breath.
The spectacle are holding back their tears, some couldn’t care less if they mess up their mascara. The tissues in their hands are their saving grace. People in front of Jasper and next to him are crying, crying, crying. His younger brother rubs his back in an attempt of soothing him down.
But Jasper isn’t crying.
All he hears are lies lies l i e s.
Filthy lies that comes out of that girl’s mouth, saying how much she loves Max when she never shown proof of her love. Saying how much Max means to her when she’d treated him like garbage all this years they were together. Saying how much she’ll be missing Max when her smiles didn’t reach her eyes when Max was still alive. Saying how much Max holds a special place in her heart when she’ll be meeting other boys two months after.
And Jasper wants nothing than to choke that girl in front of everyone until she suffocates for help. Then maybe she’ll be placed in the same place as Max. But if that happens, Jasper will be envy of her, too.
So instead, Jasper pushes his chair back and stands up, turning on his heels and walks away from the crowd of tears and a fake girlfriend that broke his best friend’s heart and his best friend’s dead body, and kept walking and walking and walking past the forest until his black 1967 Impala recahes his view.
He opens the door and enters. He grips the steering wheel tight, his knuckles turns white and pink-flush, like when his flesh almost burst out of his skin. When he had successfully physically hurt himself with pink marked palms, then he allows himself to take long, deep breaths and sprays the fire out of his body. His body, his heart, his mind; they were pits of raging, angst-filled souls. It is too much, he thought. Too much, too much, too much.
