Raz
Bluelighter
A long black dress hides most of the scars, but not the one around her alabaster throat. It's a line tracing her journey into the final darkness, blue and swollen.
Her mother insisted on an open casket.
The clouds are thundering in sympathetic grief, and the atmosphere of the small church is filled with recriminations and guilt and the sadness of a life ended early. If she were here in more than flesh, she would spit at the hypocrisy of it all. She would ask why the dozens of people gathered here care now when they never cared before. She would challenge their crocodile tears and demand a memory from them. She would demand they share a precious shared memory, and she would not be surprised to see them look away in mute shame. She would recognise that their gnashing of teeth is not for her passing, but for the reminder of their own mortality. Then she would scorn them for their ignorance of that fact.
She was acutely aware of her own mortality. She had been since she was 13, the first time she took a blade to her skin.
She would have given up that knowledge if she could have, back in those early days of cold metal and broken glass, but it was too late for her then. Some doors cannot be closed.
Her mother was angry at her. Her father was disappointed in her. Nobody understood her. Nobody ever could understand her. She was not the victim of abuse. She had a comfortable life and no reason to seek escape from it. But she knew, she knew that life was a transient thing, and that was something she could never accept. That was something she could never escape.
She asked her mother once how she lived with the futility of human existence hanging over her, and her mother simply looked at her with a mixture of disgust and pity. That was the last time she asked her mother anything.
The priest asks everybody to pray for her soul. He is visibly uncomfortable, and he wonders if the mother is punishing her daughter by exposing the means of her death to her loved ones like this, or whether she's punishing herself for not preventing it. He doesn't know this family, and was asked to bury the young girl by a concerned family friend. He believes they have rarely been to church. He believes they are lost, and he believes that he could have helped if he'd met her before it was too late. Suicide is a sin, and he thinks it's sad enough that this girl was so lost while she was alive...he hopes that his God is merciful enough to save her now at last. He focuses on leading their prayers, and he believes that it will make a difference.
The service ends with the mourners standing at her grave site, secretly relieved to no longer have to see her ugly wound. They all feel relieved, though most would never openly admit it. Some aren't even aware of the feeling, and if they were then they would be horrified at their own self-interest during such a terrible event. The rain hasn't ceased since the day began, and their boots and shoes are caked in wet mud and broken blades of grass.
Her mother has taken several pills, and weeps quietly at her husband's side. He smells of liquor, even through the pouring rain. It's the first time they have shared an emotional connection in years.
The coffin is carefully lowered into the pit which has been made for it. Flowers and mementoes are thrown in after the pine box, landing with a wet smack. The bottom of the hole is soon thick in muddy water. One by one, the family of the dead girl leave to comfort one another and return to their lives and teach themselves once more to forget the touch of death. One by one, they leave her flesh to rot and forget that it was ever a girl.
The rain finally stops.
And the Suicide Princess enters the sky.
Her mother insisted on an open casket.
The clouds are thundering in sympathetic grief, and the atmosphere of the small church is filled with recriminations and guilt and the sadness of a life ended early. If she were here in more than flesh, she would spit at the hypocrisy of it all. She would ask why the dozens of people gathered here care now when they never cared before. She would challenge their crocodile tears and demand a memory from them. She would demand they share a precious shared memory, and she would not be surprised to see them look away in mute shame. She would recognise that their gnashing of teeth is not for her passing, but for the reminder of their own mortality. Then she would scorn them for their ignorance of that fact.
She was acutely aware of her own mortality. She had been since she was 13, the first time she took a blade to her skin.
She would have given up that knowledge if she could have, back in those early days of cold metal and broken glass, but it was too late for her then. Some doors cannot be closed.
Her mother was angry at her. Her father was disappointed in her. Nobody understood her. Nobody ever could understand her. She was not the victim of abuse. She had a comfortable life and no reason to seek escape from it. But she knew, she knew that life was a transient thing, and that was something she could never accept. That was something she could never escape.
She asked her mother once how she lived with the futility of human existence hanging over her, and her mother simply looked at her with a mixture of disgust and pity. That was the last time she asked her mother anything.
The priest asks everybody to pray for her soul. He is visibly uncomfortable, and he wonders if the mother is punishing her daughter by exposing the means of her death to her loved ones like this, or whether she's punishing herself for not preventing it. He doesn't know this family, and was asked to bury the young girl by a concerned family friend. He believes they have rarely been to church. He believes they are lost, and he believes that he could have helped if he'd met her before it was too late. Suicide is a sin, and he thinks it's sad enough that this girl was so lost while she was alive...he hopes that his God is merciful enough to save her now at last. He focuses on leading their prayers, and he believes that it will make a difference.
The service ends with the mourners standing at her grave site, secretly relieved to no longer have to see her ugly wound. They all feel relieved, though most would never openly admit it. Some aren't even aware of the feeling, and if they were then they would be horrified at their own self-interest during such a terrible event. The rain hasn't ceased since the day began, and their boots and shoes are caked in wet mud and broken blades of grass.
Her mother has taken several pills, and weeps quietly at her husband's side. He smells of liquor, even through the pouring rain. It's the first time they have shared an emotional connection in years.
The coffin is carefully lowered into the pit which has been made for it. Flowers and mementoes are thrown in after the pine box, landing with a wet smack. The bottom of the hole is soon thick in muddy water. One by one, the family of the dead girl leave to comfort one another and return to their lives and teach themselves once more to forget the touch of death. One by one, they leave her flesh to rot and forget that it was ever a girl.
The rain finally stops.
And the Suicide Princess enters the sky.
