Time doesn't exist, for you. In the white expanse of a hospital room, the sixteen years of your life have disappeared; there is only Now. A brain injury has turned you into a stranger, but with each painful piece of progress you gain new awareness...
Not for good, and not for long, but your swab tests came back clear—you're no longer infected with the superbug, the quarantine is lifted, and you're finally allowed out of your room.
Your dress isn't as comfortable as the t-shirts you're used to, but it's more appropriate for a funeral. You're wearing shoes, but you suppose it's just to make you look dressed, because you won't be walking in them. The hospital is letting you take one of their wheelchairs.
It seems unfair that Marie can't be at her own parents' funeral, but you're glad you won't be seeing her. The thought of having to speak to her, one day, sends anxiety slicing through your belly.
Your mother has tried to persuade you to call Marie several times, but you always tell her you're too tired. Being near any form of grief and fractured emotion is uncomfortable enough, and with all Marie has lost, how much brokenness could you possibly be made to bear? How long would she cry? How many appropriately sympathetic responses would you need to have ready?
But you won't see her today, so you feel only anticipation when you're belted into the van that will take you away from the hospital.
Through the window you can see all you've missed. The amount of light out here is overwhelming! But other people were prepared for this, and have given you sunglasses.
It's the colours that enrapture you. So many! On signs, shopfronts, lights, flags, clothing... Squinting, you put your sunglasses on.
Your room at the hospital is bland. Cream and white. It had been a mercy, back when you'd needed emptiness around you to cradle the emptiness of your mind. When many colours would have been too overwhelming. Now, the monotonous whiteness is occasionally interrupted by posters your mother had brought from your walls at home, but it's still a large, relatively blank space.
But there are so many things, here. You can't read words as you pass them—you're not skilled enough for that, at this speed—so you observe as much as you can by the colours and shapes. Law offices are painted in sombre colours, and the letters you can't read are solid and stoic. Daycare centres have rich, bold colours, and their letters are lively and energetic.
When you arrive at the church, the normally large structure is dwarfed by the sheer number of people milling around outside of it. Within it, a long queue snakes its way to the doors.
It's cold out here, and the thought of waiting in the chill until you reach the front of the line makes you shiver.
But then you don't have to. When your mother pushes your wheelchair up the ramp, the crowd parts and you slice neatly through it. You think of a school of fish shifting and rearranging for a shark nosing into the swarm.
You cross your arms at the wrists and place them in your lap, ensuring that the wrist with your hospital band is displayed on top. If you're going to rampantly queue jump simply for being in a wheelchair, this is the best you can offer as an explanation. It still feels audacious—everyone else has to wait in the cold for their turn through the door—so you keep your eyes on the ground, watching it disappear under your chair.
It's almost as packed, inside. You take your sunglasses off and watch people begin to line the walls, standing.
Well, at least you brought your own chair.
You'd known Marie's dad worked at the prison, as a Corrections Officer. But listening to the speeches you learn how admired he was there, not just by colleagues, but by the inmates and their families. He had been firm—you remember his intimidating bulk and no-nonsense tone—but ultimately he was fair. He never abused his authority, the speeches said, and he treated the inmates as people rather than numbered cattle.
When the service is over and you're wheeled outside, you see what his respect has done. Gang members drift around the carpark, watching the mouth of the church. Some wear their gang patches. All wear their signature colours. They move themselves into a line, side by side, still watching the entrance.
When the coffins nose their way out of the building, and each are laid on a bier next to a gleaming hearse, the rough-looking mob begin to chant. You don't understand what they're saying, but you hear a surprised murmer behind you: 'Rival gangs, chanting together, for this.'
For Marie's dad. You take a breath of sharp cold air, struck by the surprise and enormity of it. It speaks more than any of the eulogies had.
Lines form next to the coffins, and one by one each person places a small flower onto each gleaming box. The united chant thrums in the air, pulsating, and it feels like it matches your own heartbeat by the time it's your turn. You lift two small flowers from the carton in front of you, and place one on each glossy lid.
'These are from Marie,' you whisper. You rest your fingers on the wood, feeling its smooth coolness.
Your mother puts her own flowers on the coffins. Then she wheels you away from the colours and the sound of ceasefire, taking you back to your silent white room.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
