Behind the Walls. NOVEL By Claire Darcy.

73. Self-Proclaimed Angel.

ACE.

I had never been to a funeral before. I had imagined funerals plenty of times; all black suits and tissue boxes.
Never like this.

We were heading into the courtyard the morning after we'd planned everything. I was astonished at how beautifully it all came together. There was a small stage with a microphone and stand, as well as hundreds of chairs that had been pulled out of the cafeteria. We had no coffin or dead body sitting in our midst, but a deep blue jar that already contained Andy's ashes. Apparently, some of the gang guys had actually had to steal it from the Council. The Council had a means of getting rid evidence of their violent actions. It was very fast and effective, but the gang still managed to work something out. All around the sectioned-off grass area were dusty pink roses and dark-coloured thistles. The partnership made for a lot of thorns. And amongst those thorns were delicate, white flowers.
These white flowers matched the ones in our hair.

Some of the others had gone out late last night and collected as many white flowers as possible, and had woven them into crowns for all those who wanted one. The petals kept falling off when the wind blew too hard, leaving a gentle rain of tiny white petals. The sky was overcast, appropriately grey and just waiting to actually rain.

We walked slowly down the aisle that had been created, a parade of all those who had helped bring this funeral together. There were so many more people in the audience than I had expected; hundreds of students. Dallas led the way, the blue jar in his hands. We all followed quietly behind. He wasn't going to be speaking, today. He said it would hurt too much.

Around the edges of the courtyard, a number of guards were walking back and forth, agitated. They had no reason to interrupt our gathering, but they were nervous, anyway. I wondered if they knew it was actually a funeral.

I wondered if they knew it was one of them who had shot and killed Andy.

Taking our seats in the ambient morning light, the service began. It was mostly just people standing on the little stage, touching the blue jar and telling about their favourite memories of Andy, saying things like, 'he lived a good life,' or 'he was gone too soon.' The second, I could agree with; but the first was a blatant lie.

"He didn't live a good life," I muttered to Josh as it was said again for the hundredth time. "He hated his life."

"It's just what people say," Josh muttered back, "It makes everyone feel better."

"So funerals aren't for the dead at all, are they? They're for the living."

Josh sighed a little, giving me a disapproving look. "As true as that may be, it's not nice to say things like that," he replied, itching the back of his head where the flower crown sat. I frowned.

"Andy wouldn't approve of all this moping," I said. "He liked it when he was moping, but wanted everyone else to be happy. We should be celebrating his hope, not mourning his death."

"I agree," Leon, the gang guy, interrupted from the other side of Josh, "Besides, I don't think this is really the end. Maybe in heaven, we'll see him again if that's what comes next. And if not, at least his hope lives on."

"You should be up there," I said, "That's much more encouraging."

"You're both being so disrespectful," Josh muttered, his eyes forward to the guy who was speaking. I rolled my eyes.

"We're teenagers, we don't do respect," I replied.

"What about when Rowan's speaking?" Josh asked.

My eyes snapped to the front as Rowan walked onto the stage. He wasn't wearing black, like many of the others here, instead, he was wearing a royal blue sweater. He still had the remnants of a bruise on his cheek, and in his hands was a paper folder. His caramel coloured hair was slicked neatly out of his face, and his green eyes looked sad. He kept a half-smirk on his lips.
Rowan took a few moments to introduce himself, and to explain that as the final speaker for today, he wouldn't bore everyone with a long-winded story. I smirked at the hint of spite in his voice; he was as impatient as I was for this to be over.