Okay. This did not turn out how I had planned, but I wrote it so might as well submit it! Also: Words - 986 (forgot before) [Hider= PSA] There is no procession of matching black umbrellas at Malcolm Brady’s funeral. No single tears roll down porcelaine white cheeks, and no crisply folded handkerchiefs rise from anywhere to dab them away. The eulogy is not deep and meaningful, and it is not exactly what each person in the room needs to hear at that exact moment in time. It is, to put it rather bluntly, not at all how Jenny imagined it would be. Instead, the undertaker makes them all line up like school children outside the pokey little crematorium before they’re allowed in, and once everyone is seated, it is made abundantly clear that they are on a tight schedule, and that there is no time whatsoever for any ‘funny business’. The eulogy is a reading of that one poem from four weddings and a funeral, pulled up on a phone. They stumble through a lilting, off-key and off-tempo rendition of ‘abide with me’, and then it’s over. After, they all leave in single file, and everyone is very sorry for the loss. It might’ve been nice, had their faces not been dappled gold with sunlight, if the scent of flowers hadn’t been thick and sickly in the air. It’s false. These peoples' world hasn’t stopped. Hasn't crashed, been left, stammering like a scratched record. What do they know? For a moment, rage flares, hot and white as the bright summer sun, but then she watches an old man get into a battered old ford mondeo, and it’s fifteen years ago. Her dad is driving her back to her mum’s house in a similar car, humming along to Johnny Cash on the radio. Jenny always used to wonder if, when he was alone, he sang along out loud. She’d never know, now. Not that it really matters. After the church, they go to the pub. There’s a function room booked and an open bar, but the line between the mourners and the regulars blurred long before today. A man with a ratty T-shirt and blue jeans is eating a slice of quiche, talks to a woman in a neat black pantsuit as she sips delicately at a pint. Jenny quietly slips into the background, away from the noise and the booze, just like she used to when she was a kid. This isn't her space, it's his. No one here will proudly ruffle her hair as she sits, perched on the sticky lacquered bar, straw poking out of the cold can of sprite in her chubby, childlike hand. No one will loudly declare that they have the next round, because ‘Our Jen got into bloody uni!’. Her mum won't. She remembers what it was like at the hospital. Her mum, sat, a perfect scowl is etched across her face. Red lipstick that seeped into the cracks around her mouth, makeup smeared on in the dead of night. She wasn’t old, but she looked it. Jenny admires the stubbornness now. The quiet strength and apparent invulnerability. It wasn’t always like that though. When she fell and skinned her knee, the first time she fell out with her best friend (and the second, and the third), when she broke up with her boyfriend. She’d wanted compassion, understanding, but her mother had wanted her to be strong. She remembers being told, a long time ago, after a misfortune long forgotten, that crying would make people think she was weak. Just another hysterical woman, too emotional for the serious business of success. Don’t let anyone know what’s inside. They won’t like it, won’t like you. At the time, Jenny hadn't liked [i]her[/i] very much. Her father held her when she cried. Told her it was okay to be sad, that he’d rather she told him and didn’t keep it bottled up. He never bottled anything up. Her mother said he was a manchild, Jenny thought of it as passion. What would it be like if it were her mother in that coffin, in that hospital bed, in that car? Something sickly and cold prickles beneath the surface of her skin. She shouldn’t think like that. It’s wrong. She goes to get a drink, something else to focus on. After the refreshments, Jenny goes home alone. Her little flat is dark, so she turns the yellow lights on, and they flicker to life with an electric buzzing sound. She turns on the cooker, gets out a frozen pizza whilst it heats up. Pretends to be reading the instructions instead of thinking about how she probably won’t be able to pay her rent anymore, not without her dad’s help. She’ll need to pick up more hours at the store. Isn’t sure how she’ll juggle that alongside uni, but supposes she’ll have to figure it out. Water and enzymes and salt spill over her cheeks unannounced, and when she rubs at them, her flesh turns pink and raw. No one holds her. No one tells her everything’s fine. No one tells her to just let him know if she’s struggling, for food, for rent, for anything. She’s on her own. She’s on her own and she’s mad. Why did he have to be in that coffin? Why did he have to be in that hospital bed? Why did he have to be in that god forsaken car? Why did it have to be all his own fault? She thinks back to Malcolm Brady’s funeral. His sister reading the eulogy off her phone. His daughter, crying as she shook the hands of mourners as they left the building. Told her they were sorry for her loss. That should’ve been Jenny. Could’ve been, had there been more than her, her mother, and her brother at his funeral. She wonders if her dad had sung along to Johnny Cash that night. The scent of alcohol on his breath, pride at Jenny getting into uni in his heart. She’ll never know. Fuck. Him. [/hider]