I Am Iris

Chapter Eleven: Out of Reach, Out of Reality

"Iris! Iris, darling! You have to get up!" A woman squawked in a withered, scratchy voice that comes only with age.

Instead of rising, or at least replying, I buried my head under my pillow, hoping to drown out the distressing sound.

Before I had time to melt into my mattress, a pillow and all seven of my blankets were thrown to the ground. I had nothing to block away sound and sight anymore. My grandmother stood before me, her worn face covered in loose bags of skin. She was a bit on the chubby side with her round body draped in an ocean of black cloth which hung down to her ankles. Her expression was distorted into a mixture of agitation and frustration.

"Iris, it's been over a week," Gran cooed. Her hard features suddenly melted away, and she looked at me with understanding. "I know what it's like to lose someone you love. Everyone does. I loved your mother, too, and your father, of course. I'm old, so everyone I grew up with is either that or dead. It gets worse, sweetie, trust me."

I stared at her, wide eyed and pouting. "Is that supposed to make me feel better? Knowing that I'm not the only one that's hurting? Because I know that. The kids in Africa are starving, blah, blah, blah. Or is the moral of the story that I should just feel bad for you and your dead friends? Or that I should just give up because everyone I care about is gunna die and leave me anyways if I don't leave them first? Help me out with this one," I hissed through clenched teeth.

Gran's head shot back, shocked to hear me speak for the first time since she had arrived. I'm super duper good at ignoring the elderly. "Iris!" She gaped as if I had committed some horrible sin.

"I don't care," I stated, holding my head up high. I wasn't entirely sure why I said this or what I was responding to- that is, if I was responding to anything at all. All I know is that it was entirely true. I just don't fudgin' care.

"Iris, I know you're in pain, but you need to get dressed. The funeral is in an hour! We're going to be late!" Gran ordered. She grabbed onto my arms as she spoke, then pulled me onto my wobbling legs. I hadn't gotten out of bed in two days. It would have been longer, but I was slightly opposed to the ideas of both diapers and bed pans.

I swayed from side to side, struggling to remain still. "I think I need to learn how to walk again," I muttered as I stared curiously at my feet, which were clad in holey, florescent orange socks.

"Stop making excuses and go take a shower!" She yelled.

"No."

Gran stood there for a minute, too shocked to speak. "No? No?!"

"No," I repeated slowly. It's a one syllable word. Not too difficult to understand.

"Fine. You can smell all day. Just put on some proper clothes!" Gran instructed.

"That's not what I meant," I corrected. "No, I am not going to the funeral."

Gran shook her head in disbelief. "You are being very disrespectful right now. You don't have to take a shower, or apologize, or want to come- or, heck, you don't even have to brush your hair! But you're coming." She raised a steady hand towards my face, and I'm not even going to lie, I flinched. I thought she was going to hit me, but instead, she held it there for a minute. Then, she rubbed my cheek softly before shutting the door behind her.

I sighed. I began rummaging through my closet, looking for something 'proper' to wear. I don't quite remember what color people are supposed to wear to funerals, so I took a stab in the dark and decided on lime green. I pulled the loose fitting dress over my head, then hugged my chest, feeling the warm wool against my skin. I decided it would look good with hot pink tights, so I put on a pair, removed my socks, and exited my bedroom.