Storm.

Part Three

As she looked down at the coffin, at his pale face staring back up at her, despite the eyes being shut, guilt rushed through her like river rapids. How could she have done this? How could she have done something so despicable, something so heinous, something so inhumane? His soft, dark hair flopped over his forehead, and she looked at it wonderingly – how could it be so smooth, even after death? She wanted to touch it. She reached her fingers out, stretching them towards his face. Would it feel cool against her skin? Would touching it smudge the life painted onto him so carefully by the makeup artists that worked on corpses? Would it streak the false rosiness deliberately brushed onto his cheeks, or wipe away the peach colour of his skin, revealing the mottled blue that she knew was underneath? As her fingers were just about to graze his chin, she heard voices behind her. Damn it. She couldn't just lose herself like that. Looking down at him once more, his body dressed in a stiff black suit that she knew he would've hated had he been conscious to see it, a lone tear welled in her eye, and rolled down her cheek, as she yearned to look into the eyes of her best friend once more. Rage clouded her senses as she moved away to allow the people behind her to see into the coffin. Why was this an open-casket ceremony again? These people didn't even know him like she did, they didn't know his every secret, his every flaw. Imposters. They didn't deserve to be here, to see him like this, dressed in clothes he despised whilst living. But they wouldn't know that. They didn't know anything.

After the funeral service, she waited on the stone steps outside the church. How ironic. He was never religious. He thought it was all phony. The words he'd spoken still rang in her head: "What's the point in religion anyway? It's all made up by people who lived thousands of years before us, and literally any religious belief can be explained by science. God? Forget Him. In this life, it's every man for himself. There isn't any Godup there to save us. If there was, He sure as Hell would've done something for me by now." She shut her eyes, allowing the breeze to skim over her face, taking with it the memory of him that still flashed in front of her, as vivid as life.

A cough sounded from behind her. "Are you alright?" Meg asked her, concern radiating from her in waves. "I'm okay." She nodded, gulping deeply and sighing, before allowing herself to look Meg in the eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And their eyes met for a moment, and as though something unspoken was communicated between them through just one look, Meg moved forward to envelope her in an embrace the split-second before she found herself bursting into tears, oceans of salty water pouring down her cheeks, flooding her face with wetness.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."