JANUARY 2007

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By Josh K. Stevens, Nov 2, 2006

“I'll rise in the morning
My fate decided”
- Bruce Springsteen

I don’t even know whose funeral I’m attending.

My mind is fried. I don’t know what the hell I did last night, but I can say definitively that it involved alcohol of some sort. I couldn’t even find my car this morning. On the upside, the walk didn’t take me that long and I needed the exercise. I was hoping that my headache would’ve went away, but it only subsided to a dull throbbing. Pair that with the excruciating ache in my neck and I feel awful. I just gotta get through today. I get the feeling it’s gonna be a long one.

I see the sign for the funeral home. I stop and look at the red brick building before me. It brings back a flood of memories. My grandfather’s viewing was at this same place. So was my great-grandfather’s. I wish I could recall who was being buried. I see Jason sitting on the bench out front. He’ll know, I’ll ask him. I walk up the walkway.

He’s sitting alone with his elbows on his knees, holding a burning cigarette between his fingers. His mouth is agape and I try to follow his gaze, but he’s not looking at anything at all. I look back at the cigarette in his fingers. It’s burnt halfway to the filter and I don’t think he’s taken a single drag off of it. I sit down on the bench next to him. Neither one of us says anything.  The silence is too perfect.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my pack of smokes, Jason has the right idea. He brings the cigarette up to his lips and takes a drag. His eyes never even leave the skyline. I only get two drags off of mine before Jason breaks the silence.

“It’s like a really bad dream.” His eyes move from the skyline to what’s left of the cigarette between his fingers, “I’m sitting out here smoking a cigarette and he’s in a box inside. He shouldn’t be in there; he should
be out here, smoking with me. It’s surreal. ” I open my mouth to speak, but before I can, Jason drops his cigarette to the ground at his feet and makes his way back inside, leaving me alone with my own cigarette. He seems to be taking this pretty hard. Makes me wish I knew who he was talking about.

I sit outside for a few minutes, smoking the cigarette, and taking in the morbid beauty of the autumn day around me. The sky is overcast, there’s no breeze, the leaves are changing and falling to the ground, it’s oddly perfect out. Too bad I have to go inside. I take a final drag off of the cigarette and flick it aside as I walk through the entryway of the funeral home.

It’s odd to see all of the familiar faces before me looking so pitiful. These are people that I party with, they shouldn’t be standing in this room with red, tear filled eyes. We should be watching a movie or playing a game or drinking and talking. I see Eva standing off to the side talking with Tara. I walk up and say hello.

“This has got to be a joke,” Eva is telling Tara, “He didn’t die, he’s just messing with us. He’s probably going to sit up in his coffin right in the middle of the service and we’ll all have a good laugh.” Tara puts her hand on Eva’s shoulder and leads her off towards the couch. I’m tempted to follow, but I figure it’s best if I leave her alone for the time being. She seems like she needs time to work some stuff out.

I scan the room again and I see a group standing by the coatroom, so I make my way over to them. Andy is leaning up against the wall and Alyshia is standing beside him rubbing his shoulders. Dan stands with his arms crossed beside Kristen.

“I should’ve been there with him,” Andy is saying as I take my place in the circle, “If I had gone with him, we wouldn’t be here right now. If I could go back, I would’ve driven with him.” Dan shakes his head and I wait for an insult to spew out to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t come.

“I should’ve never let him drive home. It should’ve been me.” I feel oddly dirty and uncomfortable. Dan never took the blame for anything since I had first met him, even when it was his fault. How he could be taking the blame for something like this is beyond me. Kristen pats Dan’s back.

“It’s not your fault, it’s no one’s fault,” She tells him. She glances towards the door and points, “There’s Kathleen, let’s go say hi.” They slowly file past me and greet Kathleen as she walks through the door. I’m about to follow when I hear shouting from the parlor. I recognize the voice, so I leave the group to their own devices and enter the parlor.

“No, he’s a fucking asshole for this!” My sister is standing toe to toe with the pastor and screaming directly into his face. My father and my uncle are holding her arms, but she’s pulling against them with all her might. She looks like a rabid animal. I’m certain that if either one of her arms managed to break free from the sturdy hands that held them, she would take the pastor’s head clean off with one swing, “He’s an asshole, you’re an asshole, and the entirety of the Catholic church are assholes.”

My sister is pulled from the room, tears streaming down her face and shouting profanities at the pastor and the coffin beyond him. My stomach is tied in knots after that. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I make my way to the bathroom and stop short. I can hear someone talking inside. I put my ear to the door and listen. The voice is almost non-existent, barely above a whisper, but audible. I don’t recognize the voice.

“What do I need to do to bring him back? I wish you would have taken me instead of him.” The vocals are replaced by quiet sobs. I pull my ear away from the door feeling very much like I intruded on something very private. I turn and start walking towards the parlor. My mother is sitting on a chair just outside the parlor doors with my kid brother and they’re both crying, seemingly unable to move to make their way back into the parlor where people have been seated. My father comes out from the parlor and takes them by the hand to lead them back to their seats. As my mother stands, a funeral card falls from her lap and gently flutters to the floor at her feet. As they walk away, I pick it up and glance down at it as I follow them through the door. My mouth drops as my eyes widen with each word I read off of the back of the card. I stop in my tracks and the card falls from my fingertips. This is impossible. I look around the room at the tear stained, red faces, all the faces of people I knew and recognized. My family, my friends. It dawned on me that all of there were very few people that could’ve died to warrant all of these people coming together in mourning. I make my way to the coffin at the front of the parlor and look inside, hoping I don’t see what I have the feeling I’m going to.

I see myself.

My mind is spinning and my stomach drops. (I’m in the casket) This doesn’t make any sense at all. (is this a joke?) My breathing heightens and my legs weaken. I tumble against the casket. (is it a dream?) I turn around to see the people sitting before me on the folding chairs. Not one of them is looking at me. (which me?) The me who is breaking down, leaning against the casket. My head throbs and (I can’t hear my heartbeat) I squeeze my eyes shut.

My head spins back to the night before (was it the night before?) and driving out to the party alone. Knowing I had to be up for work, not feeling too great, getting into a fight with (who?) someone, storming off and getting into my car. I made it home safe (didn’t I?). Of Course I did, I drove home and parked (where is my car?) in the lot behind my house (it wasn’t there this morning).

The pastor is speaking to the people in the parlor. (He just said my name) I use my last bit of strength to pull myself back to my feet. I’m standing right here (and in the casket)! My head hurts and my neck hurts, but I’m right here (in duplicate)! Why won’t you listen to me (they can’t see me)?

(driving fast, pissed off at the world, feeling fine) The pastor is still talking, people are singing hymns (dark road, fine mist and fog, something running out) People are coming up to say words, everyone’s crying and laughing.

(swerve, too sharp, the tree comes out of nowhere)

More singing, more talking. (slams into the tree)

I should’ve been wearing my seatbelt

(windshield shatters, driver ejected head on)

Into the tree.

(Over on impact)

Oh My God. I can feel the rain on my face for an instant and I can recall feeling weightless, then there was darkness and (I’m dead) here I am.

I move back to the coffin and look inside again. The mortician did a great job, but I can see the skull fracture. The people in the chairs are standing, single file to say their last goodbyes and I can’t help but watch and listen, with a sick fascination, at the tears being shed, the raw emotion, the final words they have to say to me. I slide down the wall and sit in the corner of the parlor, watching and listening to my mourners. Person after person, family members, friends, acquaintances, co-workers, people I haven’t seen in ages, all with something to say.

The line begins to dwindle down and I stand from my spot on the floor and take my place at the end. I watch the final few mourners say what they have to say and I watch them walk away. As they exit the parlor, the funeral directors close the doors behind them and begin making their way back to the casket.

As they move in to close the lid, I slide inside and lay my head on the silk pillow. As the lid closes, so do my eyes. Everything goes black.

Josh K. Stevens is an aspiring writer from the Midwest. He focuses his writings mostly in the short story and screenplay genre, and he is currently working on a noir novel entitled "Mint Green Interlude on Gray" and hopes to have it published in 2007.

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