AFTERMATH
I've never been to a funeral before. What do you do when you get there? How do you address the family members? Should you celebrate life, or mourn death?
In the movies and television shows they all talk about the deceased's life, about how they had been such a beautiful person who didn't deserve to go at such an age. I had only known the boy for a short time, and I wanted to bury that memory where I could never access it.
Falling back onto my unmade bed, I close my eyes and try to make sense of everything. Three days after the accident and I still think that it's all just a crazy nightmare. Is this normal? Running my fingers through my hair, I groan, unable to answer the question which plays most on my mind. I open my eyes and look up at the ceiling.
A well-earned smile forms on my lips when I see the origami birds bumping into each other above me.
An old memory comes to mind and I remember how mum had freaked out when I'd tied ribbon in the first little bird and then sticky taped it to the newly painted ceiling. She had been too afraid to remove it, in case the paint came off with it. So the little pink bird stayed. Over the years I've added to the collection. Each one a memory, a memory worthy of remembering.
Whether I will make a bird for the dead boy, I'm still unsure.
Reluctantly I rise from my bed and walk into my bathroom. For a few seconds I just stare at myself in the mirror, not liking how my eyes look so tired. With a bit of make-up I try to conceal the deep purple circles under my eyes, although I get the feeling that I won't be only person attending tonight who hasn't slept for the past three nights.
I brush my teeth and put my hair back into a high ponytail. I smile to myself when I realise how many bobby pins and hair ties I've had to use to keep my hair back. Those YouTube girls make it look so darn easy...
Adjusting my bra strap under the black lace dress, I walk back into the bedroom. On my hands and knees, I reach under the bed and feel around for my black heels. I stashed them down here when mum first bought them for me. They are awful, especially against my pale as anything skin, but they're the only black formal shoes I own, so I'm going to have to wear them tonight.
I pull the shoes out from under the bed and blow off the layer of dust settled on them. One foot at a time, I slide my feet into them. After such a long while since I last wore something so high up, I'm a bit unsteady. The heels clack against the bathroom tiles as I go to stand before my mirror one last time.
My forehead creases in the reflection. I look like my mother. Bags under the eyes, hair pulled back and dressed in all black. The red lipstick doesn't help to break away from my mother's habits either. I shake the thought from my mind. You're just freaking out is all, calm yourself down and you won't be thinking so irrationally, I tell myself.
Perhaps if I act out meeting his parents, that'll calm my nerves enough to get through the night.
I clear my throat.
"Mrs Mitchells, I am very sorry about your son Ryden," I say to my reflection. It feels... weird, saying his name out loud. I remember thinking how odd it was seeing his name on the funeral invitations.
Ryden Mitchells, it was a name that would be hard to forgot.
I continue with attempting to calm myself down.
"Good evening Mr and Mrs Mitchells. I am very sorry for your loss," I greet myself. I hold a hand out to the mirror. "Thank-you for inviting me," I continue.
I stare at myself for a second, unsure of whether I like the idea of thanking the parents of Ryden for inviting me. You don't thank someone for inviting you to a funeral, or do you?
"Why does everything have to be so damn hard?" I'm going to be going into the church and having no idea of what to do or what to say. I'll look like an idiot.
Giving up, I slump and sit on the edge of the bath. I shove my face into my hands and try to hide myself. Why can't I just blink from existence? Nobody would know, well maybe a few people would notice, but still, not that many people would know.
"I can't do this," I grumble, into the palms of my hands.
"Have some faith in yourself Lucy," a somewhat familiar voice replies.
Slowly and wide eyed, I lift my head up. It was definitly a guy's voice. Is there a man in my bedroom?
"Hello?" I ask. There's no reply.
I grip the side of the bathtub with both hands to support my trembling body. I swallow hard, shakily rising from the bathtub. Trying to be quiet, I walk the length of the bathroom and slowly peek into the bedroom.
A bit more bravely, I take small steps out into the middle of my bedroom.
There's no one here.
Blood pumps loudly in my ears and I fiddle with a stray thread on my dress. I bite down on my lip. Maybe I just imagined it... Yeah, but who imagines voices? ... Crazy people...
With that last thought, I snatch my bag from the hat rack and leave the room before I start seeing things next. Rushing down the stairs, I take an umbrella and go into the garage. My older brother is already in his car waiting for me when I get there.
Sliding in, I slam the door of the old pick-up truck shut. In the corner of my eye, I see Noah turn to me.
"Are you okay Lucy?" he asks. I look up to him from where I tightly clasp the umbrella between my legs.
"Sure. Let's just go, okay?" I reply and he shrugs, pressing the button above him to open the garage door.
YOU ARE READING
How To Love A Dead Boy
Paranormal[editing-slowly] Despite doing everything she can, Lucy Ainsworth can't forget the night that she held the hand of the dying stranger, Ryden Mitchells. However; when she finds herself face to face with his ghost in her bathroom mirror, she's throw...
