He listened as the priest spoke with words that just went in through one ear and out the other. It didn't matter what he said. Nothing mattered anymore. His eyes were locked on the casket. The casket that contained his dead wife. He felt so numb. He just wanted to lay next to her and be buried six feet underground with her. He'd been through this too many times and he thought that he was used to it by now.
Clearly he was wrong.
"Raymond Hunter," he heard the priest say, "would you like to say some words?"
The last thing he wanted to do was get up and talk in front of a bunch of people about his dead wife. But he got up anyways, leaving his two children behind to walk up to the stage. He stood behind the podium, adjusting the microphone. His eulogy was tucked in his pocket. His fake eulogy which expressed his emotions. But nothing could express what he was feeling. He pulled out the paper, laying it out on the podium. His eyes wondered the crowd. His little children who were sitting quietly instead of fighting with each other like they always did about stupid things. Emily's family who were crying in each others arms. Her parents who were holding hands, waiting for Raymond's eulogy.
He stood quietly. Everyone stared at him, wondering when he would start to speak. His eyes wondered over to the casket that was next to him. His wife was in there. Dead. She was actually dead.
The sound of someone coughing brought him back to reality. He looked down at his paper and cleared his throat.
"When we first met, she had an eyelash on her cheek. It bothered me for some reason. I pointed it out to her and told her how I wanted to dust it off. She laughed and told me I was a perfectionist and began to mess up her hair. In that moment I knew that I wanted to be married and listen to her joke around with me every morning."
It all felt so fake to him. Emily's mother helped him write the eulogy. He mentioned to her about the first time they met. It was at the local diner that was near his high school at the time. He happened to be there with his best friend at the time–who everyone nicknamed Frog–and he just so happened to see Emily working as one of the waitresses. It pained him to know that the only two people in the world who could tell that story again were now dead. Frog and Emily.
How much worse can life get?
Raymond clutched on tightly to the paper, trying to speak again. "I-I..." The words on the paper began to get foggy as tears swelled up in his eyes, threatening to fall down. "I know how much happiness she brought in the room. Everyone always smiled at her. I truly am—was—the luckiest man in the world," he corrected himself, "she meant everything to me and I know that she's in a much better place now." He furrowed his eyebrows as his tear fell onto the paper.
A better place? That was all just bullshit that everyone always says about dead people. Raymond never believed in God. He never believed in Heaven or Hell. He thought that once you die, you die. But for the sake of Emily and her family who were Roman Catholic, he decided not to even say it out loud.
"I've handed one of the most important people in my life over to God. And I ask that he take care of her for me now." He almost wanted to laugh. Another man taking care of his woman? Ridiculous.
He sighed and quickly wiped the tears from his face before stepping down from the stage and giving it back to the priest. He sat back in his seat next to his kids. All he could think about was how awful that eulogy was. Yet everyone applauded him. For what? It was pathetic. He let his head fall down into his hands.
He didn't want to be here anymore.
-x-
The entire time after all that, people came up to him and telling him how they were sorry for his loss. He didn't care what anyone else had to say. It wouldn't bring back his wife. He wanted God to work his magic to bring back his wife. But he realized how idiotic it seemed. He didn't believe in a God. He laughed to himself while walking in the dark house he once shared with his wife. He felt a void now.
A horrific memory was now burned into his brain. He pushed open the door to his bedroom, looking inside. It was still a mess. The detectives had combed through the entire house to look for evidence. Evidence of the killer. He could feel her presence in the room still.
"Why?" He whispered to himself. He looked at the dried blood on the walls and mattress. There didn't seem to be a struggle. Maybe it meant that she was attacked while she slept. Hopefully she didn't suffer.
He didn't want to stay in the house anymore with the constant reminder that his wife was murdered in their bed. He walked down the stairs and grabbed his black suit jacket. Everything about him just screamed funeral. And now he was going to a bar to drown himself in alcohol to try and forget about it.