Don't Touch Her Act 2: Finding Peace

Chapter Sixty-Nine

𝓥𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓽

Mini died.

Eight exactly.

She had cancer for some time. She wore wigs as her hair started to fall out. She grew tired and coughed violently as the cancer grew.

Once the cancer had won, that was when she finally told Dominic and Katie.

For a long time, it seemed like time itself had stopped. The world stopped moving in that moment. It went quiet, my heart beating widely in my chest.

One night, and she was gone.

I hadn't spoken to Dominic since. I messaged him, but he never responded back until I met him in person Thursday morning - a week after Mini died.

I wore black, the temperature was a cool fifty degrees, clouds littered across the sky - a blue-gray color behind the clouds.

Her funeral was at nine on Thursday morning.

Clara and I took our seat towards the back - the only open ones in the room. I saw women crying, men holding back tears so they wouldn't appear weak, children messing around with paper or little books in there pew - completely oblivious to the ceremony.

I looked at Dominic, his body significantly taller compared to the others around him. Alan was next to him, Katie, on the other.

I wanted to walk up and hug him, say something, hoping to comfort him.

We went through the service, holding back tears as family members told stories, as coworkers shared loving and funny memories.

It was only till I walked up to her casket when I finally broke down.

This was happening. It was real. It was so bitterly real.

Her hollowed cheeks and sewn lips, her closed eyes and pale skin, a wig that was a shade darker than the usual.

I almost wanted to reach out and touch her, feel for a pulse, hoping against hope that what I was seeing wasn't true, but as I did, my hand shaking, Clara gently took my hand and steered me away.

I broke from her, finding Dominic and hugging him tightly - he doing the same.

I had wanted to say something, but in that moment, no words came. Words felt wrong, words felt inferior and useless. So, I stood and I hugged him for as long as he let me, never speaking a word, and that was okay.

Sometimes a moment didn't need words.