Oneshots

Open Casket

"Is there anybody who'd like to say a few words?" 

I feel my throat tighten up as I question my motives.  

Why are you even here? You didn't know the kid.  

But I've got a reason to be here. The rest of the people, sure he was in their lives, but I have a message from him beyond the grave. I am the only one with a real reason to be attending.  

Three rows in front, someone hiccups a sob. The pitiful noise is joined by the blowing of a nose, and the faint brush of a hand across a cheek. When I find the courage to stand and place myself behind the podium, a sea of frightened faces states back at me. They are not sad, because sadness isn't something they've been taught to show. It's fear. Shock. Their faces tell me everything.  

They're not ready for this, something inside argues, the wound is still too fresh.  

Two rows back, three from the left, Sally Harding wipes a tear from the corner of her eye and a scowl onto her mouth. She went to pre-school with Cameron, but hadn't spoken to him since. They didn't even play together as kids. Patrick Waters, fourth row, dead center. He sniffs a nose full of snot so fake that it makes Snooki's skin tone look real. He plays soccer, but not the same team as Cameron, in fact, his team was the one that would drive by and harass the boy on his walk home from school. My fists clench. He has no right to be here, even less than I.  

The only person justified by any means is a slouching teenage boy in the front row, dress shirt wrinkled and glare burning holes in the floor. I clear my throat and stand up straight at my post.  

"Hi um, I know most of you don't know me, and I don't exactly know Cameron when he was alive, but I think I know him now, if you know what I mean." I scan the crowd and the addition of sour faces urges me to continue.  

"I'm actually here with a message, of that's okay." I'm not really asking, because even without their approval, I'd continue. And the number of faces who don't show complete hatred for my words is going to greatly diminish in the next thirty seconds. "It's one of those messages that never seems to come when you need them to. The post you can't wait for always gets lost in transit." 

I get a laugh; how sorry that person will be later for letting their guard down. I plan to hit them where it hurts.  

"I've got a little story, about a friend of mine. His name was Lucas. Lucas was one of the greatest people I've ever met. He was always smiling, even when everything inside him was painfully deteriorating. One of the best friends I ever had.  

"And then he died. And whose fault was it?" My tone is steadily rising with the discomfort in the room. At least a dozen people shift in their seats, reaching for crumpled tissues under folding chairs. "Mine. I killed him. I killed him because I lived my life with my head so selfishly stuck up my ass to see that someone I cared aout was crying for help." 

I'd have gotten my point across if I stopped now, but I'm too angry to quit. "You all post on Facebook about how much you miss him, and how great a person he was, so why didn't you do anything to keep him around? Most of you haven't even made an effort to speak to him since you graduated middle school. And he was a junior. That's three years. And the things I see posted are you all acting like you were best friends in order to receive sympathy for a death you're not even crying real years over.  

"Don't tell me there weren't any signs, because that's bullshit. The rope burns around his neck wasn't even the first." I move to the coffin. It's weird for them to have chosen an open casket, but it's going to get my point across. With a fluid tug, I expose his pale arm, crisscrossed with makeup covered scars. But the deep purple still shines through. "Come up here and look at the signs, I dare you. His arms are covered in the evidence. It's your fault for telling yourself such damage could be done by a fucking cat. It's your fault and it will continue to be your fault until you accept that it's your fault, and even then it will still be your fault because this life was lost and that's not something you can get back. You say he could always come to you, but obviously he couldn't, because he didn't, and he's dead now. It's your fault for creating an environment where kids are too scared to ask for the help they need. That's your fucking fault." I jab my finger at all of them, and watch the crowd shrink away from the truth.