Picture Me Perfect

 Prologue

          I’ve never been to a funeral before, but from what I can tell, this is a fancy one.

          You walk in and the smell of fresh pink roses, her favorite, hits you square in the nose. It’s almost overpowering, yet the perfect amount for this humid summer day. They line her casket, in big bouquets mixed with orchids and water lilies. It seems like an odd mix, but the fragrances seem to balance out each other, making the big open space feel adequate. A few lonely roses are placed around her picture and in random places along the casket, completing the display.

          The church is just as beautiful; with gorgeous high ceilings coming to a point in the middle of the roof. Thick, wooden beams keep the structure in place while also adding to its magnificent demeanor. Everything inside screams beauty: beautiful flowers, beautiful walls, beautiful people. She always did like being surrounded by beautiful things.

          I take a seat in the second to last pew, hugging the end and staying as far from an elderly couple as I can. They don’t notice me. I’m not surprised.

          I’m scanning the rows when I see them walk by, their black skirts ruffling slightly from the wind through the open church doors. They hold each others’ hands, whether for comfort or to keep their balance in five inch black stilettos, I’m not entirely sure. Beatrice looks horrible, her mascara running down her face in waves. She whimpers slightly, holding on to Emma for dear life. Emma simply stares ahead and leads them to the second pew. Beatrice collapses onto the seat and Emma sits rigidly beside her, rubbing her back.

          My eyes fall on the pew in front of her best friends and I find who I’m looking for: Her parents.

          There they sit, in equal states of misery. Her mother, Joan Denninger, sobs into her hands. Her long black dress looks beautifully pressed, as though no wrinkle would dare appear. Her hair is pulled back in a simple up-do, her makeup nonexistent. She keeps a handkerchief in her lap, to catch her stray tears.

          Her husband, Richard Denninger, sits quietly beside her. He reaches up every so often to dab at his eyes and nose. He’s wearing his best suit; silk. When she was little she would stroke it, amazed at its never ending softness. She’d ask why he never wore it and he’d say it was only for very special occasions.

          I sit and watch the room fill up with people she loved:

          Her favorite teachers. Friends from her classes. The entire Barrington High School theatre department. Choir kids. The tennis team. Almost every football player. It feels like the entire school is here in the pews, looking at her picture propped up against the casket. One of those pictures so perfect you know it was caught on accident. She’s smiling at the camera, her white teeth glimmering in the sunshine. Her blonde hair’s in soft curls around her face and she’s holding one of those beautiful pink roses. She’s alive and shining.

          The preacher is about to begin the service when he bursts through the recently closed doors. There’s a pause as everyone turns around to inspect the late comer. He runs a hand through his golden hair and straightens his tie, mumbling something I don’t understand. Probably an apology, though I could now care less. Because he’s here. He came, as I knew he would. And nothing else matters.

          Kevin.

          My eyes, and the church, follow him as he sits about 5 pews in front of me. He wipes the sweat from his brow and looks all around him. Everyone’s attention goes back to the preacher, who clears his throat and begins.

          “Welcome,” he says, trying to act as though talking is the hardest thing at this moment, though he does it for hours every Sunday. “We are gathered here today to remember a very special young lady, Miss Layla Renee Denninger.”

          At the sound of her name, I start walking up to the preacher. He quotes something from the bible, trying to meet the family member’s eyes; trying to show them the sorrow he feels, though there really isn’t any sorrow at all.

          I walk past everyone on my way. No one notices me. I walk past Kevin, who can’t seem to stop staring at his sneakers. I walk past Emma and Beatrice, who seems to be getting worse by the second. I walk past Joan and Richard, who are trying so desperately to hold themselves together. I walk past grandparents and cousins until I’m finally standing in front of the picture, looking into her eyes.

          I pluck a pink rose from one of the bouquets. “You can’t always be beautiful, can you?”

          And that’s when I take the picture and throw it across the room, the glass breaking as it hits against the wooden wall.

           Nothing happens, no one moves. I look back and the photo is still there, as menacing as ever.

          I start walking for the doors, the flower between my fingers, when I remember something.

          I walk over to Richard and feel the silk of his suit under my fingers. I close my eyes.

          “Just like I remember.”

          And then I bolt out of my funeral.

A/N:

This was one of those ideas that just popped into my head as I sat down at my computer. And it literally would NOT go away! It may seem a bit confusing at first but just stick around, it'll make sense as the story continues. I feel realllllllly good about this one guys! :D

Let me know what you think!