The feeling of abandonment, the feeling of being completely and utterly alone, the feeling of not being loved or cherished. The angry fist clenched in my stomach as I make my way up the aisle, the icy stroke of death on my heart. Eyes cold and hard, pushing me forward- a march towards hell. Their whispers float to my ears, harsh words, without sympathy for the accident that no one ever intended to happen. My step falters, a mishap, no less, but their judgment shines through the gray haze with which I have surrounded myself. A pew, a single pew all to my lonesome for me to sit, to watch. And the dread, trepidation like I have never felt before courses through me like static electricity on my skin. My eyes flicker to the lone object on the stage, the intricately whittled wood, stained a deep mahogany. Those tears, those stupid tears prick my eyes once more. The guilt pulls at my body, swallowing me into its deep abyss of sorrow and dismay. So many emotions wrench me in every which way, my body, my mind; my heart rips into a million excruciatingly felt pieces. Torture, the anguish of being able to remember what I have done, knowing there is no way to repair it.
The picture they have chosen to show, to help people remember the blissful memories of his short life, brings back the living memory I have of him. The curvature of his complexly carved jaw, the sparkle in the depth of his blue eyes, the warmth of his lopsided smile, and the two cute dimples in his cheeks. His dark red hair gleams in the golden sunshine. I can’t help but feel my heart breaking; I can’t help but feel the deep hollow pit inside of me that I have dug with my own hands. I, only I, have torn this sunny fixture from the world. No one else can be blamed.
A quiet hush falls over the room, sweeping in the short, stocky pastor. Fury flashes through me; the pastor never knew him; the pastor couldn’t deliver the service he deserved. But, I must sit obediently in my deserted pew, shackled by my past. The service proceeds, without a single complaint made. His loved ones come to the podium to speak, to share, to remember. Their fond words and their genuinely felt heartache floats through the room. Some break down, sobbing into the small microphone. Others laugh at memories, for if they didn’t laugh, they too would weep. The remorse I feel becomes overwhelming, yet I cannot own up to what I have done. How could I when I am not there in reality, but only spirituality?
The funeral concludes. People shuffle up to the coffin, whispering their final goodbyes. Soon, the church is mine, silent except for the ticking of an old grandfather clock on the wall. I want to leave, to feel the warm sun on my face one last time, to experience rain on my skin and the smell of freshly mown grass. I want to relive every single moment of my life. But that is no longer possible, for I have just attended my own funeral, and this moment is where I am destined to remain for all eternity.