The Ink In-Between: An Anthology

Wearing Green at a Funeral

PROMPT: It's not a disease. Many doctors have confirmed it for you. It's not a prank. You live alone. So, why is your body turning greener day by day?

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When I walked through the door of my childhood house, stepping into that crowd of black suits and grieving faces, I was already bracing for the absolute worst.

I just wasn't expecting said worst to be so swift. Then again, momma had never been the patient sort. She saw no reason to hold back, so she didn't.

"You!"

She came out of nowhere. Or at least, that's what it felt like. One second, I was sneaking my way through the main hall, keeping my head down while sticking as close to the walls as possible, and next thing I know there were a pair of hands on my body, digging into me, and a mouth in my ear, bleeding screams into my skull.

"How dare you show up at my house?"

I don't know how she recognised me that fast, or how she even found out I would be there in the first place. Then again, if the last couple of weeks had taught me anything, is that going through life mostly unnoticed, makes you pretty bad at hiding when you actually need to.

"How dare you show your face in here!"

Even then, amidst the horrifying chaos of being shaken up and dragged across the room by my own mother, I couldn't help but think about the unintended irony in those words. Of how much effort I'd put into concealing my face, to make sure no one had the displeasure of seeing it, and how it was momma that seemed so intent in displaying it for all to see. How she was the one who yanked at my hoodie, who knocked off my sunglasses and snapped off my mask. How she was the one who grabbed me by the back of the neck and paraded me in front of all those people, like a criminal before a stoning, or a lamb before slaughter.

Like a freak show.

"Look at you. Look at this disgrace!"

Everyone was looking. Not that I could blame them. It would be hard not to, under normal circumstances.

Now... Now it was just plain impossible. To not stare. Or wonder. Or judge.

"This is what you get! It's what you wanted, right? All this attention. Finally, everyone is talking about you, looking at you. Only you. Well, congratulations, you got exactly what you wanted. You must be so happy!"

No.

No, I wasn't. Not at all. But momma knew that. In fact, she was counting on it. She needed it to hurt. She wanted karma to do its damn job, because that was the only way for her world to start making some sense again.

A part of me understood. A world stripped of meaning was a cruel one. You can't survive in it for long. I should know. I've been trying to make sense of a lot things for a while now.

"I know God did this to you. He did. You had it coming. You were always an envious, wretched little monster. You were born with a black heart and you used it to put a curse on this entire family. It was your envy that killed her. You killed my daughter! You killed my perfect angel. And this is your divine punishment. This is the hell on Earth that you deserve!"

None of what she was screaming was new to me. I'd heard and read it all before, in those countless angry phone calls, texts, letters and even e-mails that I'd gotten from momma over the last couple of days. I'm sure many of the people in that crowd had heard it too.

But maybe something about the time and place had pushed it over the line. Maybe making references to hell at a funeral made people a bit too uncomfortable. I caught glimpses of my uncle, and some of my bigger cousins, finally rushing in to pull momma back, trying to get her to let go. It wasn't easy, she had sunk her claws in deep, and every finger of hers that they had managed to pry off of me made sure to leave a scratch or a dent as a parting gift.