Love In Death

1: Grieving

My mother falls to her knees, black gown now tinged with brown dirt. Her black hat nearly flies off. My father affectionately lays a hand on her back, staring at the empty hole. My siblings stand to her right, my college-age brother holds my six-year-old sister. She doesn't understand what's going on. She won't, for years. One day, they'll tell her. They're all crying, though my father and brother try to stay strong. My sister only cries because everyone else is doing so. The four of them grasp white roses, each with thorns trimmed off.

Behind them is a large crowd. I see my best friend in the front. Her face is wet from fresh tears, but bare. Her hair is teased into a modest bun. It looks slightly odd, with the red and blue highlights she has in her dark brown tresses. Her conservative black dress is in sharp contrast with her wild personality. She nuzzles against her boyfriend. He's tall, unlike her small frame. He sports a buzz-cut Mohawk, and his usual piercings a have been taken out for the occasion. In each of their hands is a white rose.

Not far from them stands a boy. The boy I love, whom I've loved since freshman year. He's so perfect. His shaggy brown hair has been gelled neatly, away from hazel eyes. He looks like James Bond, in his suit. His name is Chris Anderson. It was unrequited, up until recently. He's all torn up, and almost sobbing. He makes me go weak in the knees and woozy in the head. He's gorgeous. And he likes me, out of everyone else. I can't fathom why. Like the others, he holds onto a white rose.

I see my uncles, my aunts and my cousins. I see my grandparents, granduncles and grandaunts. I see my homeroom class, and an assortment of teachers. People from all over town are in attendance. The guy who works at the convenience store that I often go to in my pyjamas. The hairdressers. My neighbours, even Mr Lanes, who I'm swear has it out for me. I see the popular clique from school. It's a thing, really. Jocks love outsider girls. They just pretend they like cheerleaders.

The cemetery workers lower the coffin into the ground. It's polished mahogany, with lavish embellishments. An embalmed body lays inside, cold. They take turns to drop their roses into the hole, and then dirt is shovelled in. The gravestone is marble. On it, is engraved a name, a birthdate and a death date. The epitaph reads 'She was taken too young, but will always remain alive in our hearts'.

The crowd begins to peter out, until my family, my best friend and her boyfriend, and Chris are left, staring at the mound of fresh earth, unmoving. Slowly, they leave too, until I'm the only one there.

I'm staring at a grave that bears my name.