One More Day

Flecks of dirt hit the casket.

Her father grabs some dirt from the pile, while her mother sobs; screaming and rocking; her body wracking. The priest finishes his piece. Her mother drops to her knees. The priest is speaking his part, his tone never wavering. The casket is lowered down, to where it will rest. The pallbearers carry the casket towards the grave site. A collection of her friends and family stand around the hole in the ground, silent and still. The Priest is already there, waiting. The hearse pulls up, and the doors swing open. Cars start pulling up, first the family car, then friends and extended family.

The Pallbearers load the casket into the hearse.

The ceremony has ended, and the crowd parts for her family to pass through. The Priest reminds everyone to celebrate the passing, not mourn the loss; his words fall on deaf ears. Her friends step down from the microphone, voices fading. Her friends talk about the good times, and how fantastic a friend she was. They start to cry as they talk, unashamed and unaware of just how strong their tears flow. Her friends talk about when they first met, when they had their first fight, all their silly promises, and when they went to the cottage that one time. Two girls are asked to the microphone, to talk about her.

Her fathers heart breaks a little more.

Her father steps down, slowly, shaking; hands and face ashen and shattered, smeared with tears and mucus. He finishes speaking and his words echo in the room: “If I only had known that I’d only have one more day…”; the soft sounds of mourning breaking the silence, yet adding to it. He talks about how much he misses her already. He smiles as he talks about the time she got into a fight with a boy down the street. He talks about how his daughter wanted to change the world; all the dreams and aspirations she had. He stands silently for an eternity; a minute. He walks to the microphone, and grasps the podium with his hands. Her father stands, slowly, and stands for a moment.

The priest asks her father to say a few words.

The Priest ends off his prayer. He asks God and the angels to receive her, to protect her and to watch over her. He states that though we do not understand his plan, God does, and that is enough for his flock. The Priest prays, and the congregation half-heartedly follows along. The music ends. Her favorite song is played over the PA system while the crowd shuffles in. Her family tells the Priest that they’re ready for everyone. Her father, mother, sister, and little brother talk to her. Some of her close friends approach the casket and sniffle as they talk.

Her family and close friends enter the funeral home.

Calls are made and flowers chosen. Her mother and father struggle to pick a casket for their daughter. The funeral director opens the door, sits them down, and starts to explain some of the options that they have. Her parents stand outside of the funeral directors office, hand hovering above the handle; turning it makes it real. They make their way towards the main office, their faces muted, their bodies shrunken and gray. They walk through the hallway of the funeral home, looking around at the flower arrangements and the emotion-neutral paintings. Her parents enter the funeral home, breaking down on its steps; cars passing by as they crumble.

Her family pulls up in a silver car.

They don’t sleep all night; they haven’t slept much since the call. Her father stands in the doorway to her room, the door frame supporting him. Her mom is crying into her pillow, her screams and sobs muffled. Dust motes hover in the air, disturbed from their meal, their rest; vultures circling their dinner, circling their home. Her clothes lay on the ground, untouched since she got changed a few days ago. Her mom collapses on her bed, unable to form the words to articulate her grief. The door opens, and her mother stumbles in, knowing the pain will multiply, but unable to do anything else. A mosaic of photos on the wall shine from the streetlights outside.

Her cellphone lays on the pavement, bleating and shaking, waiting for it’s owner to pick it up, to answer.

The grass is painted a dark shade of red. Glass shards cover the ground, the pavement; turning this quiet street adding to the nightmare landscape that’s been formed. The smell of gas hangs in the air; the silence broken by the sirens in the distance. A man runs out of a near-by house, having witnessed the crash, phone in hand as he runs. He’s ejected from the car, his life ending as he soars for the first and last time. The cars connect, rending metal and grinding parts losing function, losing their identity. Tires scream in protest, but to little avail. She screams as their cars come together, unable to change direction in time. He flys through the stop sign; he doesn’t even see it. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s quickly losing control, his car swinging between invisible obstacles.

She rounds the corner, signal blinking innocently.

He drives down the road, swerving slightly; the smell of gin hanging in the car as a fog. He struggles to get the key in the door of his car, stab, stab, stab. He mumbles to himself as he sifts through the filth in his pocket for his weapon of choice, his hand eventually finding the cold metal he was seeking. As he closes the door, he considers locking the door but decides against it; if people want to steal his stuff, he can at least get some money from the insurance. He grabs his jacket from the floor, and jams his feet into his worn and tired shoes. He’s going to show them what they’ve done to him; it’s all their fault; they did this to him.

The bottle tips over, purged of its contents.

He drops the bottle on the table, scouring; he’s made his decision. He throws the phone at the wall, watching as another part of his life shatters. He hangs up; hand shaking. He continues to argue on the phone, his brain gagging on the fuel provided to it. He alternates between rage and sorrow as he barters with the voice he hears on the phone. He doesn’t bother saying anything, the voice on the other end knows to just start talking at him. He picks up the phone and wills his thumb to press the ‘talk’ button. The phone rings, a noise all to familiar by this point. Nothing good has come from it. As he lays on the couch, his life in tatters around him, day time television plays in the background displaying other people with other problems; a vain attempt to feel better about himself. He hasn’t moved in two hours, not since he brought the gin from the freezer.

She sets off down the road.

She kisses her dad on the cheek as he hands her the keys; she’s visiting her friend. She’s already calling for her parents as her foot hits the first step on the stairs. She gets changed, running around her room, her favorite song bopping along from her cellphone. She closes her cellphone, happily clicking shut. She asks if they can get together, and they decide on a coffee shop five minutes down the road. Her friend is back in town for school, and wanted to surprise her. Her friends Internet connection hasn’t been working for the last couple of months, and her cellphone fell in the toilet, which explains the radio silence that they had. At first she’s mad, as her friend hasn’t talked to her in a while, and there was no explanation. She answers to find a friend she hasn’t heard from in a couple of months on the other side. Her phone continues rings, happily singing it’s song and vibrating in joy.

She wakes up to the sound of her cellphone craving her attention; dreams rolling back from where they came.