12/08 - the day i pay respects.
I AM ARMELLE. I SHALL PAY RESPECTS.
Dear Diary,
I haven't changed from the funeral, yet. I'm still wearing my horrid black dress and my stupid black heels and my ugly earrings. I hate everything I'm wearing, but I'm too tired to put something else on. I don't see the point of changing, anyway. None of it will matter in the end, what clothes I wear right now. Nothing of my legacy will mention anything to do with whether I change out of my funeral clothes right now, or not. Nothing will matter, in the end, other than the fact I have a pretty face and a messy brain. Nothing else. Not my love for drawing. Not my love for writing. Not my love for Michael. Nothing will matter.
The funeral, as most are, was depressing. But, not in the whole 'Gosh, this is so depressing, I'd rather be with my friends' kind of way, but the sort of depressing that brings out that dreaded emotion of sorrow that is so absolute, it rains over you in dark, dark drops. It's a sorrow that swallows you up from the moment you even touch it, and just empties you, you know? It makes you feel nothing, other than the hollow part where there used to be someone. Someone to worry about. Some thoughts to take care of. I can't put my finger on why I cared about Clarity so much. Why her death hurt me like Calum's did. It confused me, confused me to the point where I'm lying face down in bed with my diary between my elbows and my funeral clothes draped across my shivering body.
Michael came to the funeral, as it went without being said. We went together, and there was this massive hill that ascended into the field where her coffin rested. There were seats everywhere, and a priest stood atop a podium that looked much too plastic for his weight. The thing that hurt me the most -- the thing that caught my breath -- was the fact nobody else came. Not her family. Not any friends. It was only me and Michael. My legs were aching from the steep hill, but I didn't show it. I sat down quietly, my cheeks hot and my eyes burning.
The priest said some prayers into the microphone, and each minute made me want to scream. Not cry. Not sob. Just full out scream, because this shouldn't be Clarity's funeral, she shouldn't have to lie motionless in a wooden coffin with nobody but Michael and I to finally have closure. It was horrid, to sit through all the prayers and the words the priest muttered while I clasped the flowers tight in my hands. Nobody said a speech. Nobody prepared one. My guilt was in flames, and I had to rush towards the copse of trees behind the field and vomit. I couldn't look at that beautiful photo of Clarity framed beside her coffin. I couldn't think of the possibility of getting to know her, being able to be friends with her. I couldn't.
I can't do this. I'm going to change, then take a shower. I need to take a shower. I need to wash this all away.
