It's the day of Jane's funeral. She died on her twenty-second birthday. I am stood amongst a sea of her loved ones, all shrouded in black like some tragic shoal. All I want to do is scream but my pale lips are dry and my ribs are still bruised from the accident. I wish I were in that casket instead of her: cradled by cushioned silk upholstery and enveloped in the scent of oak wood. Totally unfeeling.
Instead, I remain silent and avert my gaze towards anything other than Jane's mother's bloodshot eyes. It settles upon the greyed brickwork of the church and its weathered wooden door, ivy interspersed throughout. The architecture is rather breathtaking; I'm overcome with a sense of vertigo staring up at the high steeple, embellished with cherub-like stone carvings. God, I hope her mother isn't looking at me.
That's all people do now. Look at me. They don't speak, but try to convey empathy with their eyes alone.
I broke five ribs and suffered a fracture to my femur. I still feel the ache deep within my bones and lean, limply, over a set of silvery crutches. Yet, I'm here. Feeling. Hurting. Missing. Breathing in drags of air that I am undeserving of. The sensation of it against my respiratory tract makes me feel ill.
Funnily, it rained earlier today; the gravel is still blackened and saturated, while the scent of petrichor lingers about the uncomfortably cold air. A nebulous mist settles amongst my nostrils as I exhale.
Jane's father is smoking a spindly white cigarette next to me; particles of hot ash flutter about the air like fairy dust. He cradles it between his thin index and middle fingers, kissing it occasionally as long tokes are taken. I imagine the thick, malignant tar seeping its way through his bronchioles, hardening his lungs. For a fleeting moment I feel an anger knot itself within my chest: how dare he fill his healthy body with toxins while Jane lies dead. After swallowing hard, I think again. He's killing himself slowly, from the inside out. I can't blame him for doing so.
Sometimes I wish I had died in the accident. This was partially due to the pain, but almost entirely due to the devastation I felt losing Jane. My best friend. The love of my life.
The evening of her birthday, I kissed her cheek so softly, inhaling the juvenile scent of her powder blush; it dusted my pursed lips, leaving a sweet peachy hue. Slowly, her thick eyelashes fluttered shut like butterfly wings and she smiled sleepily.
"I should head over to my parents' house now" she spoke through a mouth stained rouge with wine.
"Do you have to goooooo?" I teased a little, hanging my arms around her slender neck.
"I wish I could stay, believe me".
She laughed to herself for a moment. "It's just gonna be mum lecturing me on my smoking habits and dad with his...fucking...government conspiracies"
Her hazel eyes rolled back into her head. I laughed.
"At least you get homemade cake, beats this shit" I nodded towards a small, slapdash cupcake illuminated by a solitary candle. Jane had picked at the pink icing, leaving little trails on its surface.
"I love it, Maia" she smiled, before swallowing hard. "I love you, Maia".
My face promptly blushed a dewy pink and I kissed her on the lips. Jane was so cool and nonchalant that hearing those words felt like some form of reward.
"Come on" I spoke, after pulling away. "I'll drop you over"
"You've been drinking and I can walk, don't worry"
"I've had two glasses, anyway, I'm not letting you walk alone and drunk in the rain". My argument was solidified by the torrential patter of raindrops on the conservatory roof. A coy smile tickled her lips.
"My coat is new and I wouldn't want to ruin it..."
"Exactly, now come on I'll get your stuff"
We were driving down a long stretch of country road when it happened.
Relentless, the rain formed a thick, opaque sheet over the windscreen. It had been stormy all day. The wipers were on, though they struggled to materialise a path for my vision and squeaked horribly as they scraped across the shield's surface. Goosebumps puckered my porcelain skin as the night's coldness seeped through the car's metal framework. Jane, on the other hand, was encapsulated in an uncomfortable heat, with her new red coat zipped up to her chin.
"Fuck this I'm far too hot".
I failed to avert my gaze from the road towards her. My headlights were full beam, painting the rural tarmac ahead of me in a garish yellow light. Familiar, a national speed limit sign came into my view. I eased my foot further down onto the accelerator. Jane's seatbelt clicked undone.
She began manipulating her long, elegant limbs out of that coat.
My jaw was clenched shut and my hands gripped so tightly around the steering wheel that my knuckles grew pale; I felt vibrations from the engine propagate throughout my fingers. I turned towards her, catching glimpses of her flushed face. That outrageous smirk. The stray strand of chestnut hair adhered to her cheek.
"Maia" she screamed. I turned. The image of a large, shattered tree lay before us through the windscreen. Its branches looked like hands.
I went to slam my foot on the brake, but it was too late; the overwhelming sensation of nothingness had overcome me. Everything faded to black.
When I finally woke up, sore and exhausted, I could barely speak. My broken body was bound in some sickly grey hospital gown and nobody could look me in the eyes. They then told me that Jane was dead. I screamed.
I screamed as if all the agony could leave my chest through an open mouth. I felt no catharsis as it all spilled out.
Grabbing large, thick handfuls of white hospital sheets, I felt my pillow become strewn with tears.
Nobody held me. Nobody could comfort me. I simply cried, eyes raw and throat burning, thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I cried hard enough, some God may hear my pleads and plant Jane back into the soil of this earth.
The doctors told me I was so lucky to come out of such an accident this unscathed. I didn't feel fortunate in the slightest. The only aspect I was somewhat grateful for was how I was unconscious during the accident. I never really knew what happened to Jane, or how she died exactly. Though, at the inquest I heard the phrase "partially ejected from the vehicle".
I try not to think about that.
Now, I'm sat on a cold pew under the mosaic glow of stained glass windows. I feel almost holy. Gentle, white light from the dull sky outside scatters through glasswork depicting saints with aureate gilt halos. The rays are refracted, separated into corpuscles of colour that settle amongst the grieving faces. Next to Jane's coffin stands the priest, clad from head to toe in white; his face is gaunt and hollow, but I'm not really looking at him. A dull pain settles behind my raw eyes as I suppress tears from slipping out. Through a watery veil, my gaze settles on the open casket. Of course Jane would have an open casket. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
The priest is talking about something religious and the urge to scream rises in my chest once more. Jane despised the idea of any higher power, especially if he, God, was a man. Once, when we were fifteen, the local church visited our secondary school and handed out little red bibles. Jane and I spent our entire lunchtime defacing each sacred page, smoking a packet of black cat cigarettes between us. I remember laughing until my chest ached as she blew smoke from her pierced nose.
Listening to the priest's drawl on light and forgiveness, I begin to imagine Jane as some form of deity or saint. She was beautiful enough to be one, with shoulder length chestnut hair, full sanguine lips and round peach-like cheeks. In this mental image, she's dressed in pure virginal white and a warm band of gold radiates from the crown of her perfect head. She looks calm and innocent. I try to keep this version of her close when I approach the casket. For a brief moment I can't bear to open my eyes, but I do. There she is.
My Jane, white and cold with a blanket of hair sprawled out around her. An almost glittering waxy sheen transverses her skin; lips are purple and parted. I gasp audibly, desperate for air. She's no longer herself - a mottled taxidermic clone of what she used to be.
Strangely, I thought this would be therapeutic for me. A final, but difficult, goodbye. A terminal glimpse of her thick lashes and full cheeks that could sustain me for the rest of my years alive.
Instead, I feel an almost indescribable loss, missing the animation of her bone structure, the wrinkle of her nose with joy, the hairpin curve of her mouth as she spoke. This feels like losing her for a second time.
I miss her so much.
