Every time, it’s always the same-the suits and black dresses that drag on the ground like the people wearing them. The smell of incense and fresh flowers.
The attendants flock around the open coffin like black birds, alighting and circling back around to each other.
I make my way to the man near the front, the one everyone keeps approaching to talk to.
“You’re Mr. Jamerson, right? I’m very sorry for your loss.”
He simply nods. “Thank you for being here today,” he tells me. He doesn’t seem to be able to talk very much right now. In my experience, they usually aren’t.
I step to the front of the room and take my seat. The rest of the crowd does, too.
The priest steps up to the alter and the murmur in the room dies down.
I’ve heard so many funeral speeches over the years, that I only really hear the main points. Loved by all who knew him, taken so tragically soon, we must take this as a lesson to be kinder to one other.
No one’s giving any other speeches for this one. Guess it’s my turn now.
I step to the podium. I stand out as I make my way through the crowd, the only person dressed in white- as is tradition for my profession.
I can see the body more clearly, now that I’m above it. There he is, in the coffin, lying amidst lilies and laurels. He looks young-under twenty, at least.
Even if it makes the Song shorter, it’s always harder Singing for the younger ones. At least it’s not a stillborn this time.
I lay my hand on his forehead and close my eyes.
After all those years, I still hear my mentor’s voice in my head.
Relax your shoulders. Put your emotion aside.
Focus on your voice, not what comes out of it.
With the first high clear notes, I begin the Song of Alec Jamerson.
----
Not many people make Singing a profession nowadays - not even those who are born with the natural talent. As touching as it can be, many find it to be too personal, too invasive-and there’s those who still believe we’re faking it. It’s beginning to go the way of seances and spirit mediums.
But while there is still a need for us, there is still a place for me.
Though Alec’s spirit (or whatever counts for it) is gone, the echo of his memories remain. And I translate them into song.
I sing of his deeds, his dreams, the love he felt, the love he received from others. Notes cascade playfully-he laughed a lot. The audience listens, rapt.
As the end nears, I brace myself for the emotional pain-his death was a suicide, and it’s always hard to Sing through tears.
But it doesn’t come.
Rather than a crushing ache of sorrow, the pain stings, icy and sharp down my whole body.
Fear.
It cumulates into one, sharp, high note, almost a scream.
Then my voice, as well as the rest of me, gives out.
--
I open my eyes to the priest waving a fan in my face. I can see a few faces behind him, worried, pained, confused.
One of the ushers quickly escorts me out of the chapel and into one of the grief rooms.
I slump into a chair, trying to get my bearings. It’s not particularly comfortable, but the furniture here isn’t really designed for comfort-just a place to collapse into, which is what I’m doing now.
Uncle Morris comes over quickly, with a glass of water.
“You okay, sweetie?” He puts it in my hand. The cold helps to jolt me back into reality, into my own skin. I nod.
“It must be the heat,” he says. “I keep telling Greg to get the AC fixed.”
“We use all our cold air on the dead,” I shrug, between sips. “We can’t afford to use it on the living, too.”
He snorts. “Don’t forget, the living are the ones who pay us.”
“I guess.” I lean back into the chair.
“Don’t feel too bad about it,” he pats my hand. “The rest of the performance was beautiful. I know the two of them really appreciated having you here.”
I nod. Then he goes back to attend to our guests.
But after what I just Sang, I don’t have the thought to be embarrassed.
I know what I Sang.
It wasn’t a suicide.
That boy was murdered.
-----
Uncle Morris is very particular about how the home is run, and he takes confidentiality very seriously.
Our careers happen to co-align with themselves, so Morris lets me stay here free of charge. A Singer on the premises adds prestige, a touch of class, to a funeral home.
And I’m the only one in town, since my mentor died. I was the one to Sing her off, as is tradition with our craft.
But despite being both an employee and family, there are certain places I’m not allowed without permission. The office is one of them.
Better to get permission than to get caught.
Morris is on the front porch, sweeping the deck.
“Hey Morris? Could I look up something in your office?”
He pauses in sweeping. “What for?”
“To contact the Jamersons. I feel kind of bad, for making a scene the other day.”
Morris waves a hand. “I told you, don’t worry about it. Those things happens.” He smiles. “Didn’t I tell you about that one funeral where that guy spilled his drink on the corpse?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want their kid to be remembered as the person who made the Singer scream at his funeral.” I widen my eyes for extra effect. “Can I at least get their address so I can send them an apology note?”
“Why not just email them?”
I shrug. “It’s more formal.”
He shrugs right back. “Fine. It should be in my files, under ‘Jamerson’.” He turns around and goes back to sweeping.
“Thanks.”
---
Even with his permission, I’m still a bit apprehensive as I step into Morris’s office.
I’ve been in here a couple of times, when Morris asks me to help with paperwork. That’s one thing you wouldn’t guess about this line of work- there is SO MUCH paperwork to go through. Forms from insurance companies, from places of worship, from cemeteries - far too much for one person to get through.
That being said, the desk is clean and organized. There’s a dried bouquet of flowers on the wall-they’re from his wife’s funeral; my aunt Jackie. I was only three when she died.
I do know exactly where to look for the file. Third drawer down. I rifle through the J’s until I find his file.
I usually don’t take much investment in my clients. It’s easier that way.
But Alec was just a kid.
If something happened to him, I want to know.
I check the parent’s address.
204 Sunset Street. Tomorrow morning I’ll head over there.
---
I take the car the next day, to get my dress dry cleaned. I have a couple spare ones, but I think it’s important to keep them all in good condition.
On my way back, I stop by Sunset Street.
------
I park a few feet from their driveway.
Once I get to their doorstep, I knock on the door, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
This goes against pretty much everything in my practice. What am I even doing here? What am I hoping to accomplish?
Before I can think or do anything else, the door opens.
I recognize the deceased’s mother from the funeral - she’s traded her black dress and veil for jeans and a t-shirt, but still retains her haggard expression and red eyes.
“Can I help you?” she says uncertainly.
“Hello, Mrs. Jamerson,” I smile, falling into the tone I use with all the relatives of my clients - calm, polite, and understanding. “I’m Allison Doughty. I was the Singer at your son’s funeral. I’d like to apologize for my performance - it was wholly unprofessional, and your son deserved better.”
That had sounded less rehearsed in my head.
“Yes,” she agrees. “He did.” I wince inwardly.
She clears her throat.
“It was a very beautiful performance - up until the end, I mean.”
Mrs. Jamerson’s body droops. She looks very tired.
Her eyes finally focus on me again.
“Would - would you like to come inside?”
I smile.
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
----
This feels a bit strange - usually my uncle and I are the ones serving tea to the grieving, instead of the other way around.
“It must have been very sudden for you,” I say, phrasing my words carefully.
Mrs. Jamerson sets her cup down.
“It was.”
Despite my career choice, in truth, I’m terrible with people. Whenever I speak to people at funerals, it’s only a few words, and it’s as if I’m reciting from a script. This is completely uncharted territory for me.
Mrs. Jamerson folds her hands in her lap, rubbing at them.
“Whenever it’s quiet, I can still hear that gunshot ringing in my ears.”
My eyebrows raise slightly. I hadn’t known he’d shot himself.
She continues. “I was downstairs, making dinner, when i heard it. It was the loudest thing I had ever heard. I ran upstairs, and...”
She puts her face in her hand. We both remain silent for a moment after that.
I speak up. “Was he...going through a hard time? Anything in particular that was upsetting him?”
Mrs. Jamerson is quiet for a moment.
“That’s pretty much all I’ve been thinking about since it happened.”
She lets her hand drop.
“I’ve been going over books, online articles, for signs of suicidal behaviors in teens. His friend, Jake, was here a few days ago, to help me go through some of his things. I thought I might find some answers there, but...”
She lets her head drop. “Nothing.”
Silence falls between us once again.
I softly clear my throat. “Would you mind if I use your bathroom?”
----
I walk out, wiping my hands on my jeans. Halfway down the hall, I pause.
The door is ajar. From the band poster covering it, no need to guess whose room it is.
I stand there a moment, suspended on the balls of my feet, before peering inside.
It’s a teenage boy’s room. Bed, bookshelf, bed, desk and computer. A few more posters on the wall.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
The bed remains unmade. A pile of dirty clothes sit in the corner, gathering dust.
There’s a space in the middle of the room where the carpet is darker than the rest.
One can only guess why Mrs. Jamerson’s avoided vacuuming that space.
There are a few dark stains in that spot that have clearly been scrubbed, but still linger.
I shiver.
Before I duck out, I quickly snap a picture with my phone.
----
“I should get going. I would hate to impose on your hospitality any longer.”
“True,” she gives a watery smile. “I’ve poured enough drama onto you. You’re not a grief councilor, goodness knows.”
I soften my gaze. “I am familiar with grief, Mrs. Jamerson. I don’t mind it at all.”
I want answers, too.
Maybe I can find some. For the both of us.
And I’ve learned something by coming here, at least.
I shake her hand, firmly.
“Thank you very much for the tea.”
---
This funeral is mostly older people, with a few scattered younger relatives. Makes sense, since he, too, was an older person. This is pretty standard fare for us.
Of course, I’m not paying attention to the service.
I’ve been sneaking glances at the photo on my phone, trying to look for anything that might be important.
But for now, as I step to the altar, I take a breath and put all that aside.
I don’t sing for myself, after all.
I sing for the people there.
It’s the closest they’ll get to having the deceased tell them goodbye.
Singing their death is the hardest part of the song. To put aside the emotion of experiencing death secondhand is hard.
The notes are warm and gentle-he was a kind person, who died surrounded by the people he loved. I feel the notes soften in my throat, and then finally fade.
I open my eyes, coming back to the world of the living.
The audience does not clap - to do so would be a great faux pas. I silently step down from the altar and take my seat. I hear sighs and a few sniffles from the crowd.
The priest gives the final rites, and the service comes to an end. The mourners resume their flocking.
The widow comes over and shakes my hand. She says it was a beautiful performance, that Harold would have been honored. Several others come over saying the same thing, a few of them dabbing at their eyes.
I don’t stay long-I have no reason to.
Now I can focus on my pet project.
---
The morgue is a small, office-like building, white tiled and sparklingly clean. The only difference is that the entire place, like some parts of the home, reeks of formaldehyde.
A young woman sits behind a counter, with a name tag reading Mara. She’s kind of cute - dark hair under a hair net, black lipstick. If you work with the dead, I think to myself, you may as well look the part.
She looks up from typing on her computer. “Can I help you?”
I hand her my business card.
She cocks an eyebrow. “You’re a Singer?”
I nod, with a bit of pride. “Only one in town.”
“Huh.” She leans on the counter. “Didn’t know they still made those.”
Oh, she’s real funny.
“I need some information on a body that came through here recently.”
“You need to see a body?” She gives a harsh laugh. “What, do you need to rehearse or something?”
I frown. “No. I said I need information on a body. A coroner’s report.”
The girl picks at her nails. “Yeah, you’re gonna need a little more clearance to get anything like that. Unless you’re a cop, or immediate family, no dice.”
Okay. Think of something else, fast.
“Do you remember an Alec Jamerson?” I ask.
The girl looks up. She snaps her fingers.
“Teen suicide, right? I remember. The gun was still in his hand when they found him.”
I wince. “Isn’t that normal for a suicide?”
Her eyes widen. She sits up a little straighter and grins, like she’s telling me a secret.
“Actually, when someone shoots themselves, it’s much more likely that the gun flies out of their hands, because of the force of the shot, and because the damage to the brain cuts off motor controls, so they can’t maintain a grip.” She gestures as she explains.
“You’re interested in this, huh?”
She shrugs with a wry grin. “Why do you think I got this job? I love true crime stuff. But the police system is totally corrupt, so I became a coroner instead.”
Her smile drops, and her eyes go even wider.
“Wait, are you thinking it wasn’t a suicide?”
May as well lay it on the table, I think.
“When I Sang at his funeral, I didn’t feel despair at the end. I felt fear. And not existential fear. Like, genuine fight-or-flight terror.”
She gives me a long look. I tense my shoulders, waiting for her response.
“Okay, now you’ve got me curious.” She motions toward a door next to the booth. “Come on back.”
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
“Meh.” she shrugs.
I can’t help but smile.
---
The morgue has a filing system, pretty similar to the one Morris uses. She pulls out a file labeled Jamerson, Alec.
“Caucasian Male, 17 years old. Cause of Death, gunshot wound to the head. Estimated Time Of Death, 5:30 PM.” She pulls out a photo. It matches the body I saw at the funeral.
Mara takes a seat and continues reading.
“The bullet lodged in his brain came from an AMT Automag 111. It’s in police custody, which I, unfortunately, don’t have access to.”
I turn. “How could you tell that?”
“The casings around the bullet from when it was fired can be used to determine the make of the gun.” Mara explains.
She holds up the photo, examining it more closely.
“The diameter of the entry hole is pretty small. It would have had to be at close range.”
“Unless he was held at gunpoint?”
She raises an eyebrow. “True.”
“Is there any way to tell?” I ask.
“At crime scenes, they can usually measure the bloodstains to determine what kind of impact it was.”
“Hold on.” I pull out my phone and load the photo from my gallery.
Mara’s eyes widen. “You were in his house?”
“I stopped by to comfort his mom. And I... happened to swing by his room.”
“Damn,” she gives a sly grin. “I like your style, girl.”
I press at the screen to widen on the bloodstains in the picture.
“They’ve been scrubbed at, obviously,” I say, handing over my phone. “But can you make anything out from it?”
She squints at it.
“They are fairly large, for a gunshot wound.” she says slowly.
She looks up. “Can you send these to my phone?”
Mara scribbles something on a post-it note and hands it to me. It’s a phone number.
“I should be getting back to work. But if you happen to get any more info, give me a call.” She grins. “I’m fully invested in this now.”
I take it, with a slight flush of my cheeks.
---
I decide to do some more research.
Alec’s Facebook profile is still open to the public. After wading through the more recent messages of condolence and “I-miss-you”s from those who knew him, I start coming to posts he made.
His last post was a picture of a food court burrito, and the caption “this is the biggest goddamn burrito I have ever seen”.
Nothing to indicate that he was about to kill himself.
I keep scrolling. He liked music, video games, hanging with his friends. I don’t know many teenage boys, but this seems unbelievably average.
No signs, just like his mother said.
After about a half hour of scrolling through posts, I lean back and purse my lips.
I need to get more information.
I need to go to the source.
----
Though I’ve been to the local mall enough times, I don’t think I’ve actually ever been into a video game store before. There are loud advertisements playing, with more game merchandise than actual games that I can see.
Mara and I are near the front, pretending to be interested in a series of keychains. She’s agreed to spend her day off helping me investigate.
As I had hoped, two boys are there, a blonde and a brunette - almost a mirror of Mara and I. They’re chatting animatedly to each other. I recognize them from a few of the photos I’d seen last night.
“Well?” I whisper to Mara. “We’re not going to learn anything just by watching them.”
“But if we talk to them, they’ll know we’re suspicious of them.” She frowns. “And I make my living off of learning through observation, thank you very much.”
“They’re not cadavers,” I point out.
“Okay,” Mara puts a hand on her hip. “What do you suggest we do, then?”
“Hey,” a voice interrupts us.
One of the boys is now standing next to us.
“You guys looking for something?” he asks with what I’m sure he thinks is a confident smile.
Of course. Two girls walk in a game store looking confused, of course guys are going to approach them.
Luckily, talking to people is something I do know how to do.
“Just kinda looking,” I smile. “My friend and I are both pretty new to gaming.”
“Yeah, I kinda figured. I could recommend you some cool stuff.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mara trying to hide her disgust.
“That sounds great,” I say.
---
The boy, whose name is Zach, has been talking to me for eight minutes or so about a series of first-person-shooters - some kind of war-type game- he likes.
I’m not really listening. I’ve been thinking for at least five of those minutes about how to bring up Alec’s death without seeming too nosy.
“I’m getting hungry,” Mara breaks in when he pauses for breath. “Let’s go get some food.”
Zach smiles.
“That sounds pretty good. Hey, Jake,” Zach calls to his friend near the other side of the store. “Wanna get some food?”
The brunette slowly turns his head and begins to approach us. He looks Mara and I over carefully.
“Who’re they?”
“Girls. They’re cool. They game.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Doubt it.”
“Dude, come on,” Zach insists quietly, his smile wavering a bit.
“So,” I say, smiling. “What kind of stuff do you like?”
He shrugs. “Call of Duty, God of War, Modern Warfare-you know.”
I don’t actually know any of those. They sound violent, though.
Mara finally speaks up. “Do you like anything that’s not so...based around killing things?”
Jake gives a knowing look towards Zach.
“What?”
Jake shrugs. “What’s the problem? It’s not real. People are always trying to censor death in the media. I mean, what’s the big deal? We all die.”
I raise an eyebrow. The only other person I’ve heard talk about death that way is my uncle.
Maybe this is how he’s dealing with his friend dying?
Zach turns back to face us. “Wanna go grab some food?” He asks, a little too loudly.
I smile, genuinely. “That sounds great.”
We exit the store. I follow them out, Mara behind me.
“If they try anything,” she whispers to me, “I take Aikido on the weekends.”
---
I sit and quietly munch my nachos, listening to Zach, waiting for an opportunity to interrupt and change the subject.
“You guys are really cool,” he finally says. “It’s so hard to find girls who like this stuff. How is it we’ve never seen you at school before?”
I will my eyes not to widen.
Do we really look that young?
Okay, I can work with this. If they think we’re their age, they’ll be more likely to tell us things they wouldn’t tell adults.
But what do I say to answer his question?
“We go to school on the west side of town,” Mara pipes up.
Thank you, Mara.
“What about you guys?” I ask them, hoping it doesn’t sound forced.
“DeVarnon High. On the east side.”
“Isn’t that where that kid died a few weeks ago?”
I shoot a sharp glance at Mara. I’m hoping I look indignant rather than frantic. I was hoping to ease into the subject a bit more gently.
At the question, the boys’s smiles fade, and they lower their gazes.
“Yeah,” murmurs Zach. “Guess word travels fast, huh?”
“Did..” I start. “”Did you know him?”
Jake nods.
“He was one of our best friends,” Zach whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Was it...sudden?” Mara asks.
Jake scowls at us. “Why do you care?”
“Jake, relax.” Zach waves a hand at us.
“Sorry. I guess we’re kind of tense right now. We had no idea he was feeling that way, or why he would. It was really sudden.”
He falls quiet, and the silence hangs between the four of us.
“I’ll be right back,” Mara says, rising from her seat. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“Me too,” I say, seizing the opportunity. “I’ll go with you.”
As we leave, I can hear one of them say, “Why do girls always go to the bathroom together?”
---
“What do we do?” I whisper furiously. “They’re not telling us anything.”
“I don’t know,” Mara leans on the sink counter with a huff. “Can’t you, like, put your hands to one of their heads and hear his thoughts?”
When I realize she’s actually being serious, I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“I’m not psychic. I can’t read minds.” I jut my hands out in front of me. “What I do for a living is not some kind of superpower.”
“What would you call it, then?” she snaps back.
Honestly, I don’t have an answer.
Mara puts her hand to her forehead. “Maybe this was just a waste of time.”
I don’t want to say it out loud, but...I’m starting to think the same thing.
“Maybe we should just come clean,” Mara says. “Tell them the truth. They might tell us something.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“It worked with me, didn’t it?”
“You and I are adults, Mara. They’re children. Children who are still grieving.”
“They don’t know that,” Mara points out.
I narrow my eyes at her.
“Look, we don’t have to tell them everything,” Mara argues. “Just ask for their help. He was their friend, right? They’ll want to do it.”
I sigh through my nose. I don’t feel comfortable doing this.
But if we don’t get some info out of them, this whole excursion will have been for nothing.
Besides, they said it was sudden, just like his mom did. That’s a pattern.
“We’ll only ask for help,” I tell her.
---
Mara and I come back to the table to find Jack sitting alone, staring attentively at his phone.
“Where’s Zach?” I ask.
“He had to leave. His mom texted him, saying he had to come home for something.”
I feel a twinge of guilt. That sounds very much like a excuse to leave.
Well. It’ll be easier convincing just one of them. Hopefully.
Mara and I sit down across from him. I take a deep breath, preparing myself.
“We haven’t been entirely truthful with you about us. About Alec.”
Jake picks his head up from his phone, all of his attention on us.
I steeple my fingers together.
This kid seems to understand death. Maybe he’ll understand where we’re coming from.
“We think there’s more to his death than what we’ve been told. We’re trying to find out exactly what happened.”
He keeps staring.
“Do you think you can help us out? Anything you know might be helpful.”
Jake goes quiet for a minute. I’m almost ready to apologize and tell him to forget it, when he finally speaks.
“Did you check his hideout?”
“Hideout?”
“Yeah. A shack, in the woods near the park. He used to go there a lot on his own, when he was upset. Us too, sometimes.” Jake shrugs. “Maybe if you went there, you’d find something?”
Well, it’s better than nothing.
-----
Mara and I head into the field in the afternoon, a few days later, and manage to find an old, run down shed.
“I’m guessing that’s the ‘hideout’?” Mara grimaces.
“I don’t see anywhere else that could be.”
“Are we gonna go in?”
I hesitate. “It might be someone’s property.” I’ve already done several vaguely illegal things this week, but if it is someone’s place, this would definitely be illegal.
“How about I stand guard outside?” Mara suggests. “If I see anyone coming, I’ll text you.”
I nod. That seems reasonable.
Mara positions herself outside. I open the door.
------
I step inside, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the enveloping darkness.
The shed is empty, apart from some dry leaves and spiderwebs. No evidence of teenage boys.
Then I hear the door close, and the shed is even darker.
I turn to see someone standing in front of the door. It’s too tall to be Mara.
In the dim light, I can just make him out.
“Jake?” I ask. “Why aren’t you at school?”
“I skipped,” he says. “I was in here, waiting for you.”
He looks up at me. “Why aren’t you at school?”
Before I can come up with an excuse, he lets out a dry laugh.
“I’m just kidding. I know you’re an adult.”
I realize then just how small this space is, how close he is to me.
“I recognized you from the funeral. It was funny, when you screamed and fell.”
He lifts the latch on the door, hooking it closed.
“Alec never came here,” he says. “None of us did. No one ever does. Except me.”
I can feel ice under my skin.
Jake walks closer to me, not really looking at me.
“I never really had anything against Alec, you know.”
I feel my hands start to shake. My mind is thinking a million things at once, but right now I can only focus on what’s in front of me. I keep listening.
“I began thinking how easy my life would be, how many fewer problems I would have...if certain people were just gone from it.” He meets my eyes. “Don’t tell me you haven’t ever thought it, too. Everyone has.”
I can hear the door handle jiggling. Mara’s voice is on the other side, calling out for me.
I don’t dare to make a sound. Can she hear what he’s saying through the door?
“I had been waiting for the opportunity, to see if I could actually do it. Then, one day, Alec was saying things to me that I just couldn’t stand for.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t really want to kill him, you know. It was him who made the decision for me, in the end.”
He leans in. I can feel his breath on my skin.
“And it was so easy.”
He puts a hand to his head.
“I had done research, on how to cover up fingerprints and footprints. No one ever knew I had even been there.”
I can feel my stomach starting to churn.
“Coming home after, that was probably the best day of my life. I felt like I could do anything.”
Jake turns away from me, staring up at one of the gaps in the walls, where light is streaming in.
“I understand how the world works now. I feel free.”
The noise from the other side of the door has stopped. Has she gone for help?
“If you want something, you only have to make it happen.”
He turns back to me, as if he’s only now just started addressing me.
“But now that you know...”
As he moves, I can see something glint in the light near his hip.
There’s no way Mara could make it back in time to help me.
Jake lifts up the gun and points it towards me.
“Do you know, you were the only one to suspect me? Even the police weren’t suspicious.” He gives that dry laugh again. “Funny.”
My body tightens. I can’t move.
I am going to die here, in this space, at the hands of this kid.
Jake cocks the gun.
Several things happen at once.
The door bursts off its hinges and falls to the ground, revealing Mara, her foot raised in the air.
Jake startles backwards as he fires the gun. The blast is deafening in the small room.
I shut my eyes.
I feel the burn of the bullet against my temple, grazing my hair and searing my skin.
I hear a ping next to my ear.
Then, a thud.
Then, silence.
---
I stay where I am, eyes shut. Vaguely, I wonder, why aren’t I dead?
Finally, I open my eyes.
The ringing in my ears fades into Mara shouting at me.
I glance out of the corner of my eye.
The shovel next to me has a small dent in the metal.
I tear my eyes away from it and look towards the corner.
Jake lies in the corner, his head propped against the wall, his legs crumpled beneath him. His eyes are wide, as if in confusion.
And wedged in between them, the still-smoking bullet, a halo of red around it.
My legs give out, too, adrenaline and nausea coursing through me.
From the center of the room, Mara is crying softly. I can feel my own eyes begin to burn.
It occurs to me - for all the funerals I have sung at, for all the bodies I have seen...
I have never watched someone die.
My mouth is dry. I feel unsteady, even kneeling on the floor. Every inch of me is tired and hurting.
I make my way towards her, and sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around her.
We let ourselves cry, feeling the warm pulse of our living bodies against one another.
---
After a while, once our tears have dried up, Mara pushes herself against the wall into standing. She offers a hand to help me to my feet. I take it, clinging to her a little harder than I intend to.
Mara shakes her head. “What a creep.”
“What could have made him turn out like this?” I wonder out loud.
She glances over at the body.
“Only one way to find out.”
Mara looks up at me, expectantly.
Wiping my eyes, I nod.
I step up to him. I know exactly what to do.
I lay my hands on them. I open my mouth.
I sing.