Funerals are never happy. That is simply a social norm.

The deceased is named Jay Turner. We went to high school together, or so I was advised in my invitation. I never knew him well; we were mutual associates, friends of friends. Perhaps we had exchanged words once, or perhaps we never did. It matters to neither me nor the decomposing corpse in the coffin.

The funeral staff looks at my black clothing and the parting gift clutched in my hand.

“Are you here for the funeral?”

A pointless question, but I nod anyway. It is far less troublesome if you simply partake in the trivial exchange of question and answers. It is like a pre-written script—both parties know how the conversation will play out, though they follow each line dutifully.

The gift that I have brought is a lily. It has not fully bloomed yet, but the pollen leaks out regardless. The unpleasant substance clings to my hand in a sticky, clammy film.

The procession has barely started, and yet I already would rather be elsewhere.

As I walk into the main hall, I am surrounded by the soft, mournful tone of a grand piano. It speaks of aching loss and lasting heartache; it laments unrealised dreams and unfulfilled promises. A flurry of heavy sorrow blows across the room, almost tangible enough to suffocate me.

Though, a second — and much less agreeable — sound joins its dirge. A loud, jarring series of cries and wails echo in the chamber, not unlike the sound of nails against a chalkboard.

I turn my head towards the source of the disruption. A herd of middle-aged women, most likely relatives of the deceased, shuffle inside with little care for the tender atmosphere.

They crowd around Turner’s final resting place — I almost pity him, even though I know he is long gone. I would imagine that it is unpleasant to be peacefully laid inside your eternal bed and have little rats scurrying outside, gnawing and nibbling at the corners.

“Oh Turner, I loved you since the day you were born. Even if I wasn’t there for your birthdays or moment of celebration, I had always supported you.”

I frown at the strange juxtaposition, but the other aunts seem to agree earnestly with her self-contradictory words.

“Yes,” says another. “We all cherished you greatly. Your possessions, even more so.”

It may simply be my pessimism, but they appear to be eying the coffin and how expensive it looks.

The coffin is beautiful — I must admit that. The ivory wood is gilded with ornate designs. It must have cost no small amount to construct. But despite all its elaborate opulence, the wooden box is merely a façade in the end. A shield to hide Turner’s embalmed body from the guests, all to keep up appearances.

Much like the scene before me.

I stare impassively at the supposedly tear-jerking display. This garners the attention from nearby onlookers, who glare at my unmoving face.

Is it not enough to simply pity the dead? Must I go about shedding false tears for a stranger?

Because in truth, that is all Jay Turner is to me. The perpetually grinning, cocky overachiever is nowhere to be seen in the memorial photos of him. In place of the Turner I once knew, there is only a sombre, defeated looking man. One could only speculate about what catalysed such a dramatic transition.

These people around me will not be happy until tears fall from my eyes. They want me to participate in this charade of mourning, this tragic stage-play with an empty premise.

Humanity is cast as the directors, the actors, the audience all at once. We play all the roles and yet receive none of the recognition. I am unclear when these curtains opened, but I am a thousand times more certain that the curtains will never close again.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

I do not know whether to conform or berate the actors surrounding me.

Amidst my eyes’ aimless wandering, they catch onto a woman standing off to the side. I would have been enraptured by her beauty, if not for the piercing glare that she shoots me. It rivals a swordsman’s rapier, as sharp as it is elegant.

The urge to apologise rushes up my throat like bile, but I swallow it back down.

Our words are stilted, merely placeholders for empty platitudes.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“I give and I give, yet I receive nothing.”

“Me too.”

“But if everybody gives and nobody receives, then that is a paradox in itself.”

“Perhaps.”

Seemingly bored of our exchange, the woman turns away.

I go to mirror her actions, but a glint of metal halts my movement.

At the base of her neck is a zipper. Ugly steel stands out against the elegance of her lace choker.

Is it a necklace? No, it cannot be. The crude metal is far too beastly to be part of her meticulously arranged jewellery.

If it is not an adornment, then what purpose does such a strange object hold?

Out of morbid curiosity, my hand reaches out. Numb fingers tug at the metal piece.

But beneath the zipper is not flesh, pulsating in life, but a hard black carapace. The surface is smooth and glossy, the chitin closely resembling plastic.

Instead of a face that displays a variety of emotions, there is merely a cloud of writhing grey smoke.

I instinctively want to flee, but my legs have suddenly turned into stone.

“Are you a monster?” I ask impetuously, the words tumbling out of my mouth.

“No,” it replies.

“Are you human?”

“Yes.”

“Then, what is a human?”

The shadows shift to reveal an eerie grin. “Look around you. Do you think that these people are human?”

As I swivel my head to assess the mourning party, my disbelieving eyes catch onto a horrific secret.

Behind each of their necks is the unmistakable flash of crude iron. It tells the tale of a zipper that hides away the truth.

I wordlessly turn back to look at the creature in front of me, my mouth sealed shut. I have no answer for its seemingly simple question. No matter how hard I try, the underlying answer remains shrouded in fog.

“We waste our time in frivolities and pleasantries,” the voice echoes. “But now that you have revealed my true nature, it is pointless. Begone.”

Why is this creature acting as if nothing has happened? I have just discovered that terrible, dark creatures pilot the self-proclaimed ‘humans’ around me. Are there no real people surrounding me? On Earth, even?

A sudden whirlwind of rage stirs within. This pompous shadow before me has just ruined my entire perspective on life, and yet it acts so unbothered by the consequences of its actions.

In the spur of the moment, I move my hand — still holding the lily — to strike the creature. I am not sure of my intention, even in hindsight. Was it to berate, or was it to teach? Or perhaps it was merely a bestial reflex in response to my rage.

Regardless, the motive is insignificant in comparison to the result.

I am too slow, and my body is too weak. The instant that my hand moves, it is knocked away. The lily, forgotten in my desperation, also follows the sharp motion. However, where my hand stops, the lily continues its disastrous trajectory. With a soft thump, it collides with the expensive, hand-woven carpet.

A gasp echoes from an unknown bystander.

The rug, in its elaborate glory, is eternally sullied by the lily and its pollen. Even though it is only a small speck in comparison to the entire carpet, the bright yellow stain stands out like an ugly scar.

They view me with hostility. I am not one of them. I have not followed the script in this stage play. My mere presence is an ugly smear on Turner’s funeral, just like the yellow pollen stain on the rug. I suppose the lily and I are not too different after all.

Somebody walks up to me and places a hand on my shoulder.

“Darling, it’s fine. Just… go somewhere else for now, alright?”

The voices whisper something different. “You leech. It was a simple task to stay still and pretend to mourn for Turner. Now look what you’ve done.”

Surrounded by looming, menacing figures, I have no choice but to back away. The shadows of the pillars hide my miserable form as I slink away to the corner of the church.

Those stares are even more irritating than before. I know what lies behind those eyes now; I know of the selfish, uncaring creatures cloaked in shadow. To think, a simple zipper is all that it takes to unleash the beast within. It frightens me more than joining Turner in his elaborate, expensive coffin. The false humans do not move from their positions, eyes locked onto my figure.

Uncannily, I have the impending sense of being cornered.

I cannot take it any longer. In a flurry of motion, I retreat to the nearby bathroom.

But even in this temporary refuge, I find no solace. The mirror houses another maleficent being; it takes the form of my reflection, but the taunting grin is not mine.

It leers at me, “It is not uniquely human to be selfish. This is a law of nature.”

“I understand that.”

“If not for our self-driven desires, we would perish as a species.”

“I understand that.”

“Then why are your hands shaking?”

I drop my head to stare at my hands. My knuckles are as white as the discarded lily, clutching onto the sides of the sink.

“Coward. Reach behind your neck.”

At the base of my neck, I feel a zipper.

I pull down,

And the theatre erupts in applause.