Through The Dark || Harry Styles

1. LUCY

LUCY

"I'm sorry for your loss."

I've lost count of how many times that pointless sentiment has been uttered to me in the past five days, mainly from people who dance on the borderline of being an acquaintance and a flat-out stranger.

"Thank you," I hear my strained voice, but I'm not sure if I'm the one actually speaking anymore.

The valium must be working.

My lungs feel heavy as I hold my breath when the woman I think is a friend of Jake's mum leans in to embrace me. Her delicate arms wrap around me and I swallow down the urge to shove her out of my personal space.

The smell of her overpowering perfume crawls up my nostrils and the sickly sweet intrusion almost pushes through the self-induced grogginess, and I'm nearly jolted into feeling something.

Nearly.

The sombre chatter around me is an incoherent hum, the sea of black outfits morphing together, and my exhausted mind is not willing or able to take part in polite conversation. Instead, I stand surrounded by people who keep insisting on touching me and concentrate on the toes of my black ballet flats.

Whatever drugs the person was on when they invented the wake after a funeral were clearly much stronger than what I was given this morning. Also, what kind of arsehole names a gathering to mourn the dead, 'a wake.'

My mother tried to reassure me yesterday that this was a normal process, that the formality of a funeral was an opportunity to celebrate Jake's life and come together with people who loved him.

Well, I'm sorry for ruining the party but the last place I want to be is standing in Jake's parent's house, sedated, and yet still barely keeping it together, while people reminisce about the man they will never love as much as I do. I don't need a fucking 'celebration of his life' to solidify or confirm that.

This whole day, the funeral, the burial, and now this wake, hasn't brought me closure; it hasn't brought solace or sense of celebration or finality. I want to be at home, in bed, with my shattered heart and the doors locked, taking every breath in and out while I wish with every cell in my body that Jake was next to me doing the same.

My eyes reluctantly drag around the room to see my cousin clutching her chest as she sobs like she's the one whose husband just died.

I know I should be angry, sad, frustrated, but I'm not. I can't feel anything in entirety. Thank god for modern medicine and the doctor and my mum suggesting I take a little white pill today.

A man that I believe worked with Jake looks at me sympathetically while he expresses his condolences, and I briefly wonder how many people are here for some sort of sick entertainment, to see how fucked up I am, or so they can go home tonight and feel a twisted sense of relief that this isn't happening to them.

I wish that was me.

My eyelids feel like they weigh a ton, maybe from the valium or the weight of this week; it's hard to tell. But as I take a deliberate step backwards from the circle of people talking around me, I feel three people reach an arm out to steady me. I want to scream at them to stop fucking touching me, but deep down I know it's coming from a place of kindness.

I lift a corner of my tightly held lips, the best attempt at a smile I can manage, and turn to find a moment of peace and quiet.

The heavy door clicks behind me, and I look around the room I have only been into once, the first time I met Jake's parents when he gave an obligatory tour of his childhood home.