The Funeral

She speaks of death with a flicker of her red tongue, rich with antipathy and deceit. I can hear the crackle of thunder in the distance, while I am safe and warm inside this cacoon of solitude. She speaks of a woman most often refered too with abhorrence and wariness. Now they sit here with tears in their eyes speaking of fond memories and apathetic remorse. All of them know full well the demon was laid to rest that murky brumal night. They still remember a firey ring in her eyes and a longing for a sedative just too forget who she; herself, was. They all cry their fradulent tears and wish for her to come back too the living.

          I speak nothing, only listening too the beautiful echo of the grand church, ignoring the nasaled high pitch womans voice speaking as if she were about too cry at any moment. I am still aware of her, but I know she is unaware of the real person she is mourning for. Ugly mornings and ugly days, my life had become more often than not when she was here. So much so, I learned to love the cruel scarred shaped box Ugly comes in. So much so I find myself wondering how I must live without it. The monotony of living my life in hers. Her son, my son. Her life, my life. Her house, my house. The menacing mounds of pill containers and powders kept in random drawers and cupboards or shelves. They taunted her - ripped and stabbed at her identity until IT became her. She wasn't really this way. She never believed this was a better life. THEY took it from her, and never let it go. Maybe she could have broken free. Maybe I shouldn't have left her all alone. The sickness in my throat rises. I feel the bile mix with saliva, and there is nothing I can do but swallow the ugliness. My eyes water, and my stomach flips. The times ticks by with a distinctly sour and retching smell. Fuzzy pictures appear as I try too see through tears.
         The end is near and I can feel it slither through me. The excitement of grieving vacantly. The beauty in literally swallowing your tears and the lump piling in my throat. The antisipation of purging my pathetic bereavment. To feel the keys on the keyboard, cold and hard as I cry about, what this life is for now. Slowly people stand and walk to the door, looking detestabley petty in my direction. Each of them more pathetic than the other as they exit the door. I am left now - alone.