DO ME NO GOOD ━━━ 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐊 / 𝐅. 𝐅𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑

1. 𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐞.

𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞

»»————-　✼　————-««

LOCATION: WASHINGTON D.C, UNITED STATES.

𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟕𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟒.

After she hit her warning tail lights on and killed the engine, she got out and opened her umbrella. Rain pattered on it, like an anxious voice telling her to hurry, tripling her uneasiness with every step. Distant thunder rolled in the sky echoing the sound of trains. She clutched her umbrella handle, nylon-shiny black wings folding over her petite frame, protecting Camille from the bad weather. Cold air blew hard, and she drew her black dress coat closer as she walked down the street. Her boots clacked against the gritty pavement.

As she slowly approached the entrance of the funeral home that gloomy morning, the young woman tried to remember the last time she'd been to one. Despite the fact that she was barely six years old, Camille could still recall parts of her grandmother's service with surprising clarity. The confusion, her tears, and an unexplainable fear.

She remembered seeing an uncle of hers cry. At the time she hadn't seen too many men cry. That was... Camille didn't know what it was about men crying; people still grow up with the absurd notion, boy's don't cry. When she did see it then, it was harder than to see a woman cry. The scene stuck with her for the rest of her days.

In addition, she recalled waking up to the sound of her mother's screaming. As a kid, there were a lot of questions she could have asked. Camille never discussed it with her mother. Other events from that day were blurry, but one thing she could vividly remember as well was the real good sandwiches her Aunt Helen made, that she ate on the slow ride to the burial. The young woman closed her eyes for a moment, reminiscing about Nana's favorite hymn playing softly. Everyone showed up in dreaded black garb, tears coming from four walls. All except one person: the departed's husband.

Camille's grandfather grew up seeing and knowing death, and he'd learned very early that he was not to cry at funerals. Again, crying was a sign of weakness. Upon arriving home, the man had the whole tearful family sit around the dinner table and declared "There will be no more tears now. There 's been enough crying today to last forever. We have to be brave and get on with our lives." That very same night, her father had tucked her into bed and whispered "No matter what grandpa said, I promise you, there is nothing wrong with crying, Camille. It's better to release the pain by letting the tears flow than to keep them inside. Your grandpa... he's just as sad... He just... shows it in a different way. But, your mother and I, we have a different rule about crying in our family: you can cry as much as you need to, but you can't cry alone."

Yes, tears were an expected part of grieving, and for Camille's father, those tears were better shared -a hug, or a listening ear wouldn't erase the sadness, but the experience wouldn't be quite so lonely.

Her empty stomach lurched. The wind changed, whipping the rain sideways. Bending low, Camille rushed toward the house's front porch. It was elevated, with a set of white wooden stairs going up to the entrance. On them, her footsteps sounded too loud, despite the eaves and gutters spouting noisy rivulets of rain. Above, two house windows stared at her like angry eyes, running with tears. Warm lights shone from inside, appearing much brighter given such a dark day. Her heart thudded, so loudly it almost drowned out the rain. 

Sudenly, a black man with dark sunglasses made his way outside the funeral home's deserted entryway, whispering through the partially opened door at the woman following close behind him. She was rather tall, with pinned-back brown hair and striking green eyes.