The Tides Washed In

Kendall

Jethro wadded the cotton cloth habitually in his shaking palms. The handkerchief was a precaution, rather than a needed material. But he knew he wouldn't be crying today, or any day, for Kendall.
The silk lining that encased Kendall brought more comfort than anything he'd experienced in his existence, apparently, and Jethro cursed Kendall's ignorance once again as he passed the plastic face of his former friend, not bothering to wait around and share a few words.
Kendall's accomplishments had included many brilliant goals: the loss of faith, forgotten confidence, hatred of humanity, and demolition of love, not to mention outward self-loathing.
He wore it on his arms, and it painted the insides of his veins. An over dose here, a mark there. Kendall hadn't believed in the after life, and Jethro wasn't one to shove words down another's throat. Especially not down a corpse's.
The congregation of family and acquaintances pulled into rigid chairs, ready to forget the torturous speeches that were yet to be spoken.
The family would talk of Kendall's vibrancy, and the way he laughed gloriously at life. Jethro would choke back his need to express that Kendall obviously wasn't as appreciative of existence.
Then they'd go onto mentioning the compassion Kendall had for all creatures upon the earth, and his revolutionary capacity to help others. None would dare mention how careless Kendall was in his relationships, nor how selfish he'd been.
The congregation of peoples would cry openly, blowing into tissues, holding onto loved ones, wailing, "Oh, what tragedy! What loss of life."
Jethro would remain numb as Kendall's mother requested him at the podium.
Sixteen-year-old, short and stocky, and barely breathing, Jethro stood and came to the mother's side. She smiled tenderly in her sorrow, giving Jethro a small pat on his shoulder before returning to her seat, her speech of euphemisms concluded.
He stood before the crowd, avoiding the eyes of those who pitied him. Some children whispered inquiringly to mothers, asking, "Who is that?"
Then the mothers, shushing their children, answered, "Kendall's best friend. Poor thing, this must be so terribly hard for him."
In honesty, the situation was very intense, and left him quaking. But not for reasons many assumed.
As Jethro stood, tongue dry and reluctant, he wondered to himself where God lurked in this drafty funeral home.
He saw God, corrupted, in the cousins that wept angrily in the back corner because this service hadn't been spiritual. Taking note of their presence, Jethro thought vaguely, could things have been different, if they weren't so forcefully evangelical?
Acid rose to his throat, and spitefully Jethro moved his attention to Kendall's immediate family.
They were no better. Papa Johannes was a drunkard who bothered to get sober for this occasion. Brother dear dabbled in the art of drug abuse, and darling mother sat in the shadows, as inactive as always. They denied any aspect of the Holy Spirit.
There were others unknown to him, and many who came to solely support the parents. That portion looked expectantly to Jethro, their joy dimmed in the dark of Kendall's disappearance. Jethro found no gospel sitting upon their tongues, and saw no inclination to bow knees under the majesty of the Father.
A few faces were recognizable in the disreputable crowd, people from the classroom dragged into the drama of the affair. They sat uncomfortably, swallowing shame for their sins of directing annoyances and whispered remarks about the fruitless life of their deceased peer. Perhaps they'd been correct in their words, but the sour glares only proved to deepen the solitude of Kendall. Their thoughts were selfish as they cast their gaze downward, pleading subconsciously for forgiveness whilst they nervously denied their guilt. God was detached from the class members.
The cold exterior of this crowd was revolting, and Jethro wished to scream out the truth, to shout his beliefs to the heavens, to make clear what even those who saw the best of Kendall knew.
Kendall had been a train wreck, burning as he cascaded off the rails to come down onto the wretched ground. And, knowing this, Jethro had escaped his seat on the train within a short time before the crash ensued.
The downhill slope the boy drifted upon was present since the beginning. Faith was his escapism, but eventually, sins became something to enjoy. From that point, Kendall sought to discover himself and leave the rest behind, never coming to realize that the further he ran, the more distant from love he became.
Love. That's what everyone was seeking. Many were too infatuated with demons to understand that love didn't spawn from evil.
No amount of difference could've been enough to deter Jethro, until Kendall made it in his mind that his morals were the dictating and decisive ones. Those who didn't follow the idealism of his regime were incorrect and of idiotic nature. But there were only a few who did follow his way of thinking.
Soon, those surrounding Kendall rejected him, because he thought them all to be ignorant and vacant-minded; in truth, he was the most blind of all.
He wept for acceptance and love until he'd pushed himself so far away that love was a concept he no longer believed he deserved. Slowly, the flesh became gaunt, the vibrancy of character dulled, and death came the closest to friendship, because it offered relief.
Kendall joined the thousands of insufferable, lamentable persons who ended their own lives without the blame resting on their guilty shoulders. The ones blamed were the people he constantly manipulated into friendship because he had nothing and no one to lose except himself, and to be alone was harder than saving one's tail.
And Jethro despised him. He despised him even now, as he lay in the coffin, Jethro's attempts to help the drowning soul worthless at this point. Jethro had dedicated years of his life and poured months of his heart into being the savior for Kendall, since the Savior was a mythical being to the depressive teen. Endless times, the words of his friend sent bullets into his heart, but Jethro looked past this. Countless nights were wasted, praying that God would help the wretch of a soul.
But here he stood, studied by a room of down trodden peoples, all staring at the mute boy who visibly shook in the stillness. They expected him to lie, to remain quiet about what he truly believed, to repeat the euphemisms that Kendall's mother spouted. He was expected to say that this lost life was a consequence of a decrepit world.
God rest Kendall's soul, Jethro was still obligated to lie to him. For his own good. For the sake of the congregated.
The silver tongue had twisted enough situations and calculated skill played out too large of an amount of mind games. Maybe Kendall was living in the after life, acting as puppet master.
The numbness melted into anger, adding a red tint to the space in front of Jethro. When he sank to his lowest of lows, he did not succumb to the darkness. Kendall gave in instantly. Buried six feet under pity.
He would be remembered as a brave heart, but death was just another cowardly escapism.
Yet, there was no escape from Kendall.
Jethro stared down to the crinkled paper he'd brought along to the funeral, his final words concerning his former friend.
Quickly, he stuffed it within his pocket, and fought to regain composure as he looked once more to the glaze-eyed congregation.
God was not wasting time here. He was with Kendall. He must be. He had to be. And Jethro knew what his Lord expected of him.
Swallowing, Jethro fought down his anxiety, and thought hard about his first year with Kendall, how care free the both of them were, how strong their hearts had intertwined in friendship. How amazing Kendall had been.
And he held onto that person as he spoke, this now figment of reality, the forgotten good, because forgetting the good was what tore Kendall apart.
Jethro smiled sadly.
"Kendall James Johannes was, indeed, a very special man. And I know that, in many ways, he has made me a stronger person..."