The jarring symphony of misery reached its crescendo before a swift descent into silence. Noses and mascara ran, dripping down the faces of the sea of attendants, a black sea from the elevated position of the altar. This is where Jean stood, blinking back tears from his reddened eyes, taking deep breaths that were cut short by the pain, in his throat, in his stomach, in his heart. His bottom lip quivered, his left hand trembled, his right was clenched into a fist so tight that he had drawn blood from his palm. The attendants looked up, sympathetically but expectantly, he had a responsibility to fulfil in spite of his distress. The priest looked on solemnly, he felt for the boy but he still questioned whether he should have allowed this funeral to take place in his church, such deaths were detestable to God. Jean gained some semblance of composure, wiped his eyes with his sleeve and began the eulogy.
‘Good morning everyone, thank you for being here today, both for them and for me. When they say reality is more remarkable than fiction the lives of my parents are the perfect examples of that. They lived as fast and spontaneously as they could, their lives a continuous rollercoaster with the highest of climbs and the steepest of drops. I was the only thing that slowed them down a bit. Looking back I feel pretty lucky that I was the one they decided to keep, that they gave me a chance to experience their wonderful, eccentric personalities and showed me that life is meant to be lived carefree because it only happens once.’
Jean stumbled away from the podium, finally allowing his tears to fall as he rejoined the black sea. He received a few comforting pats and hugs but as he reached his seat he felt gazes, angry gazes, from around the room. When he was looking down from above the vitriol could not be sensed but now he was one of the many drops it was suffocating. He knew his parents did not want this, they had stayed as far away from the church as possible, feeling that the moral constraints preached were equitable to the hell the followers were trying so valiantly to avoid. He had to do this, give them a final chance to have their souls’ saved. The eulogy was restrictive, he could not paint a bad picture of his parents to the public, he could not let them know of the anger and resentment he bore towards them. Left to their own devices they would have killed him when he was an embryo, parenting was the last thing on their agenda and that held true even after he was born.
The room cleared quickly as the funeral service ended, Jean walked up to the open casket, he wanted to see them one more time before they were cremated, as they had wished to be. They shared a single casket, laid side by side in a cream coloured suit and a bright red frilly dress, more elegant than either of them had looked at any point when their hearts still beat. As he stared at their shrivelled, lifeless faces, he was caught between yearning to hold them and wanting to spit on them. His grandmother had told him for as long as he could to remember that they were tortured souls that required people of strength and character to open their hearts to them, that they needed his forgiveness. The priest strolled towards Jean and placed a hand on his shoulder, ‘I’m sorry my boy, to lose them both at once must be horrible.’. Jean stayed silent and remained fixed on the corpses, the priest sighed and looked on. A fan rotated in the corner, shoving wafts of musty air up his nostrils. Sensing Jean’s desire for solitude the priest left, ‘Young man if you need anything at all let me know.’ he called back as he exited. Pools of tears welled up in his eyes as he gritted his teeth, he should not feel sad, they had never loved him. Still, he was distraught, carrying a hollowed-out heart in his chest like that of a lover whose feelings were unreciprocated.
The ring on his mother’s finger caught his eye. It was golden with a round red jewel sparkling at its centre. He rubbed the underside of his jaw in remembrance, that had been her favourite spot to attack and it always hurt more with the ring on. He used to tell himself that it was not her fault, that she did not do it on purpose. It was because she was drunk, or high, or both. She would never hit him if she was sober. But she was never sober. It was always on her index finger, her ring finger remaining empty. Those beatings had some serious long term effects on his relationships with women, especially in the bedroom. He had resorted to paying professionals to fulfil those desires, there was no squeamishness, in fact, they seemed to enjoy it. The process was tedious though, he had to sign so many contracts, mostly centred around liability and non-disclosure. Jean studied her dress, hanging loosely around her spindly legs, puffed at the waist like a tutu. It was quite obviously new, starched and ironed. So crisp and so, so red. She loved red, she wore red lipstick, red heels, red hats, red gloves. She also loved blood. He remembered her wiping off the blood on his face with her thumb and licking it, ‘so warm’ she had croaked before collapsing onto the carpet. He had been so scared, she looked like a ghost, white powder littered in spots on her pale face and clustered under her nostrils. He spat onto the floor in disgust, of all the memories to pop into his head why did it have to be that one?
Jean diverted his gaze from his mother and stared at his father’s face. He had seen it more times in the past week than he had for the twenty-six years prior. It was still so surreal to him, even with some of its features withered he still saw that uncanny resemblance. The green eyes, the pointed nose with round nostrils, the thin lips, the glassy stare. He knew his dad was home when he heard screams and moans from his mother’s room, she never made those noises when the other men and women came over. They were always the one’s doing the screaming. Jean had glimpsed his face a few times, when they made eye contact he had hoped for a smile, maybe even a hug. Instead, he had gotten a glare laced with aversion that crippled his spirits. Sometimes, when he heard those screams, he wanted to tiptoe into the room and get a better look but his grandmother had told him that room was out of bounds… always. He was never around for long, the sounds rarely came on consecutive nights, he made a pit stop then sped back onto the track. He never wanted to be like his dad, excuse me, his father, however, he still held a strange reverence for him. His therapist had told him that this was due to years of withheld affection which caused him to desire his approval. It was not approval he wanted though, it was acknowledgement. For words to be exchanged, a nod in his direction, anything. He could never get that now.
Their bodies had been found by the maid, blood splattered all over the marble floor, thick and dry. A pair of guns were on the floor a few metres away from each of them. A note lay on the bed reading in scraggly handwriting, ‘It was our choice’. A gruesomely perfect ending. They had gotten tired of it all, finding a mundane routine even in freedom. When escapism turns into your only form of reality, life becomes bleak. They lived fast, too fast to appreciate anything. Robbed of perspective by their doctrine of all-encompassing liberty. In a few days, they would be ash and he would scatter their tortured souls into mother nature’s welcoming arms. They did not deserve that though, maybe he should just pour them in the trash.
Comments