The rain pours down my face as I stare at the slab of stone in front of me. Years of memories, good and bad, flash through my mind as the tears camouflage themselves in the sky’s gift.
Michelle Dusk
1980-2020
Loving mother and wife
Today I learned something important. Funerals are for the living, not the dead. That thing in the ground is no longer my mother. She is gone forever, and nothing I can do will change that.
“You need an umbrella, Matt?”
My best friend, Samuel Martinez, walks over to check on me. I say my best friend, but it’s more like my only friend. The two rejects of the entire grade, what a pair! So what if I have permanent bags under my eyes, or that my family can’t afford 30 pairs of designer shoes that are only worn once? So what if my allergies constantly make my nose run, or I don’t keep up with the celebrity gossip? I, Matthew Dusk, see no problem with it, but everyone at school seems to see those as reasons enough to ostracize me from them.
“No thanks Sam. I don’t really care about getting wet at this point. Although I do have a question.”
“Anything for a soul in anguish.”
Those words hit my weak point. So many people use the words heartbroken as a way of expressing disappointment from a confession. In this case, it felt like half of my heart had been ripped out and buried with the body. I do the only thing I know how to do at that moment: escape the pain with humor.
“Are you sure you need the umbrella? I thought blubber was waterproof.”
Most people in his position would hate being referred to as ‘Fatty Sam’, but he wears it as a badge of honor.
“Of course I don’t need it. Out of consideration for everyone’s eyesight, though, I chose not to show up to a funeral in my birthday suit. Your mom probably would think it’s the funniest shit to hit the toilet, though.”
That got a good chuckle from me.
“Yeah, if she were here, that would have had her rolling in the aisle.”
She was that kind of person, after all. Now that I think about it, she wouldn’t enjoy this stuffy, solemn atmosphere at all. She'd be the type of person to start talking to the air, then when someone asked her about it, say ‘The voices cannot be ignored’ just for laughs.
“Well, I think we’ve stared at the grave long enough. Let's head back to my house. I heard something about my dad’s chili rellenos this morning, and my stomach won’t shut up.”
“Always about food, right fatty?”
“Hey I got a reputation to keep. Can't have anyone in school weigh more than me, or I'll be a laughingstock.”
“I thought you already were!”
“Touche. Touche.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
With that, we walked away from the headstone, not aware that was the last time either of us would visit.
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There's something funny about a death of someone close. The world doesn’t change at all, but there’s a sense of something missing, a part of you that just disappeared. You turn around to share a moment before you remember that they aren’t there to see. Some people walk on eggshells around the topic, but me? I just buried my emotions and ignored the pain. My mother used to say that it’s better to laugh through life than to find something to be unhappy about. I took this to heart, even after her death, and tried to escape through humor. If I had to pick one thing I know how to do, it’s to find the light side of any situation, even if it’s forced.
“You ready for the trip, Matt?”
“Fatty, that’s the third time you’ve asked in the last five minutes. It's just a trip to the ocean.”
“But the swimsuits, man! Don't tell me you don’t want to see Hannah Davis in a bikini?”
“I can’t say the idea’s not tempting, but I think even just going diving there would be great.”
I was in the middle of packing my bags for the annual school trip. Every year, the high school we go to takes a grade at a time to the beach. Hannah Davis, the aforementioned person who 10/10 men would love to see in a bikini, is the student council president and the Madonna of the grade. She's the one responsible for keeping order in our bus. Sam and I were in the middle of packing for the weekend voyage, though I shudder at the thought of my friend’s mounds of pale flesh exposed to the world.
“Please make sure to pack trunks, Hijo... I don’t think anyone wants to see your speedo on this trip.”
Sam's dad poked his head in after passing by, adding just that little quip.
“Relax, Dad. The school said that as long as there are no casualties, they can overlook any problems from my glorious figure being revealed to the world.”
“Ok, but the legal cases are your responsibility.”
It's been about a week since the funeral. The weather was seeming more like May should’ve been, rather than the downpour with no end that we had. Sam’s family had temporary custody of me until the court could get their shit together. My mother was my only living relative, after Dad decided to drive off a cliff during one of his late-night excursions with the slut of the week. All I can say is good riddance. If not for him, we might have been in a much different spot. I can’t really complain though, seeing as I wouldn’t exist if not for half his genes. RIP (Rot In Pieces) Paul Dusk. You will not be missed.
For now, though, the fact she’s gone hasn’t fully sunken in yet. She was the kindest soul to walk the earth, and the most important person in my life. I can’t think about it without tearing up slightly, and if I let it, I would drown in the grief. Just shows how much of a jackass Death is. Without doing anything wrong in life, she worked herself to death with a smile on her face. All so I could be happy.
“Dude, you’ve been spacing out a lot. Can you speaks ingles?”
“Sorry. It's still sinking in at times.”
Normally the smart-ass fatty would be met head on with a sarcastic comment but the days have just been exhausting trying to live normally.
“I can’t say I know what you’re going through, but the only thing that can help is time. I wish I could make it hurt less, Matt, honestly, I do. But there’s really nothing to be done.”
“Yeah.... Alright! Enough of the pity party, me. There’s a school trip tomorrow, and a long bus ride.”
Since I was 4, I read every book I could get my hands on. I could make the librarians panic when I walk in the room, hoping they had a new recommendation lined up somewhere. I suppose the reading bug was gifted to me by my mother. She was never more than 5 feet away from a book at any time, and all her spare time went into those worlds of paper and ink. In any case, a bus ride meant finding a good book to read along the way.
“This one should be good.”
I stuff a thread worn paperback into a side pocket of my backpack, finally done preparing for the trip. As one of my favorite standalone novels, a classic modern-day setting with just a hint of magic, it was one I could read several times in a row and not get bored.
“Night, Sam.”
“See you in the morning. And, Matt?”
“Yeah?”
“When you’re ready, we can talk.”
“Thanks. Not yet, but soon.”
I walk down the hall to the guest room where I was staying. I throw myself onto the mattress and try my best to keep the tears from flowing over. As soon as I was left alone, the mask I wore crumbled into ash. I let out all the pent-up emotions that gathered throughout the day into my pillow. The one constant in my life would never be there again, and like Sam said, there was nobody that could help me get through this any easier.
My eyes finally dried, and I slipped into dreams, unaware that this was my last night on earth.
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I open my eyes to an unfamiliar sight. I’m still on my bed, but the surroundings are not familiar in ther slightest. I seem to be in a medieval castle of some sort, torches lit with green flames lining the hallway outside the bedroom. Without any conscious thought, I swing my legs down and start walking to the end of the hall. Time seems to lose all meaning as five seconds? Minutes? Hours? later I reach the end. A grand throne room comes into view, with a man devoid of color at the center of it. White, bloodless skin and a pitch-black suit, I know without him saying a word what he is. Nevertheless, he speaks.
“Welcome to my throne room, Michael Dusk. My name is Macual, God of Death.”