Grave Love (w/ xStuffOfNightmaresx) (Lesbian Story)

One: Let's Get This Over With

Skylar's POV

It was supposed to be a sad day. We were all supposed to be crying and hugging and all that, mourning the loss of yet another old, reclusive relative. And I suppose that that’s how the day had started out. Most of my family had gathered in the living room downstairs, putting on a show for the rest of the family while secretly planning a way to get another person’s share of the will. They all cry and reminisce about my now deceased great-uncle, whom no one ever really liked, all for the sake of keeping up appearances.

    This was one of the reasons I absolutely despised funerals: no one gave a shit about the dead guy. Half of the time, they didn’t even know who the guy was. But they all hurried to come to the funeral to kiss their way to taking the most of the will. It’s disgusting.

    I stood in front of my full-length mirror, trying to make myself “presentable,” as my mother had put it. “And don’t you dare come down wearing that crap you always wear, Amara-Rose,” she had ordered me.  “We’re trying to impress our family, not scare them away.”

    So there I was, standing in front of the mirror, fixing my blonde and black hair to hide the scar I had gotten on my forehead from my brother throwing a football at me a week earlier. I applied my makeup, lighter than usual, as to not upset my mother any more than she already was. Black eyeliner and mascara, slightly tan foundation, light pink blush, and nude lipstick. Mother had insisted on me wearing a simple, form-fitting black dress that she had purchased solely for this occasion. It didn’t even reach my knees, and it didn’t have sleeves like I was hoping it was – it was fucking cold in December.

     “Amara-Rose, hurry the hell up,” my mother yelled from downstairs. “We’re going to be late!”

     I sighed, and with one last look in the mirror, grabbed my phone, green skull purse, and a white long-sleeved cardigan and walked out, closing my bedroom door behind me. I walked down the stairs and prepared myself for the insults from my arch-enemy: my mother.

     Mother’s nose scrunched up in disgust as she studied me. “God, Amara, you look worse than the corpse,” she sighed.

     Funny, I thought bitterly, since you look old enough to be the corpse. I sighed in response to her and walked over to the kitchen to get a Vanilla Coke. I was in desperate need of caffeine. Some of the other family was in the kitchen too – mostly the ones closer to my age. I guess their parents were getting on their nerves, too. Most of the adults in my family were self-righteous and vain assholes.

     This was another reasons I hated funerals: it meant I had to deal with my very judgmental family, an activity that one should receive an Olympic medal for.

     “Nice dress,” one of my cousins, Monica, complimented me. I was never really close with any of my cousins – some of them were way too much like my mother for me to want to get close to them – but I was the closest to Monica. She was quiet and reserved, but loved to provide the color commentary for the various feuds that happened during our demented family get-togethers. She was like that cartoon from the 90’s, Daria, only without the big-ass glasses and monotone voice.

     “Thanks,” I replied sarcastically, twirling around. “Mother picked it out.” Rolling my eyes, I opened the refrigerator and bent down to grab a Coke.