Guns for hands (Connor Murphy x reader)

Part 5

After that day, I never left his grey walled bedroom, I laid on his bed, facing the far side, facing the window he would jump out of to come and meet me when he was bored.

Down-stairs I could hear voices, saying things like

I'm so sorry

I understand

But their not sorry

.... They don't understand

I could smell the stench of over coked casseroles and desserts.

I never understood why people always think that someone wants to eat after someone died, to me it always seemed like a cruel way of acceptance.

Like saying "hey, you can't eat because you're grieving, but here have a green-bean casserole, because the one who you loved is dead, and I'm giving this to you so you will acknowledge it."

I stayed in that room for a month.

Most of that time nobody came up to the room, nobody saw that the girl who loved the school druggie was in his bedroom, mourning his suicide by laying on his bed, under the covers, in his cigarette-stained hoodie.

The only person who ever came up was Cynthia, who brought me a lunch, dinner, and breakfast every day.

We said nothing when eating, she brought me food, come around to look at me, and then we cry, we'd cry together, and mourn him.

I went to the funeral, but I sat about 20 feet behind everyone else, in a black dress.

Afterwards, I sat at the grave and had a chat with him.

"H-hey, you um, you kinda ... let me here" I say, holding my head up to keep from crying and, pausing to sniff

"You know um... people say that you don't know what you have till it's gone, well um... the truth is... you knew what you had, but I just never thought that... I'd lose you" Tears fell to the ground as my voice gave out and my hair fell to my face, my head diagonal to the head-stone engraved.

Here lies Connor Murphy.

Son, Brother, And Lover.

(1999-2017)

I very lightly chuckled at the second to last engraving, Cynthia must have had it done.