Beneath the Surface

Chapter 1 | Blue-Green Waves

Amber's POV
Two weeks. That's how long I haven't seen my brother for. Because he's dead. God, it's hard to think, let alone say. But I'm Amber Greene and I must be calm, sophisticated and pretend that the swirling storm of emotions within me don't exist...at least until I get home, where it tears out of me in torrents of tears. How have my parents taken it? Well, I wouldn't know. They've been more illusive than ever before: Dad spends all of his time at the golf course or at the bar, drinking his emotions away, and Mum has thrown herself into her work, leaving home before it's even bright and returning long past midnight. Never once have they bothered to ask me how I was doing. No, 'Amber, how are you holding up?' or 'Amber, we know this is a hard time, how 'bout you take a day off school? ' Nope. Nothing.

Will's funeral was in a weeks and the family had prepared nothing. How could they when the only words exchanged were the occasional greetings? So, on one very rare evening when the three of us were sat around the dinner table and the only thing to be heard was the scraping of cutlery on our fine china plates, I decided to bite the bullet and ask them about it. First, I had to think of how to approach the question. So, father, mother, Will's funeral is in tw– No , too formal. Mum, dad? What are we doing for Will's fune– Way too casual and direct. I contemplated with so much concentration that I almost missed the sound of my parents leaving the incredibly awkward room.

"What are we doing for Will's funeral?" I cringe internally.

It wasn't meant to come out like that; I panicked and said the first thing that came to mind. The two of them froze and turned around. They obviously hadn't expected the question. Hell, they probably forgot it was in a week.

"Monica's taking care of all the preparations, darling," my mother has the audacity to say. Monica way her assistant. Was it such a hassle to plan her OWN SON'S funeral that her assistant had to do it?! I keep my anger to myself and instead say through clenched teeth: "Can I deliver the eulogy?" She doesn't notice my change in tone; she just nods and turns away, resuming her original path to the kitchen, to pour herself another glass of wine no doubt.

I stare at my plate of food, barely touched due to the lack of appetite I've experienced since the accident, and I can't help but notice that my father had said nothing during the whole exchange. As if he didn't even care about how Will was remembered.

At that moment, I remember something I've heard before: Funerals are not for the dead. They are for the living...
It was true. The dead couldn't care less because, well, they're dead. There's the blunt truth. They are dead and we can do nothing about it. So we throw a funeral to say goodbye, have closure, mourn. But it's for the living, not the dead, no matter how much we try to convince ourselves of it.

That night, like countless nights before, I cried myself to sleep. Tears drench my pillow and make my hair stick to my cheeks like tape. It's hours before I finally drift into the welcome arms of subconsciousness.

***

The circles under my eyes made me look like a raccoon, and not a cute one either, but a murderous, serial-killer-like raccoon. They were also puffy from all the tears I shed last night. I look into the mirror again and I see a sister who killed her little brother. If I had just payed attention to the road, then we would've been alive, both of us. Not just me. It should've been me, instead the Grim Reaper deemed it necessary to take the life of the innocent brother who was always supportive instead of the bitch of a sister who never cared about others. It simply wasn't fair. Survivor's Guilt, they called it. A month ago, I would laughed and said that the survivors should just feel lucky that they made it out alive, not get mopey and depressed about getting the second chance. Now, I get it, I understand the life-consuming guilt and grief.