2015 October Horror Story Anthology

My sister told me a funny joke after her funeral

I'm not a strong man. I never have been. Yet, I remained the only one who didn't have a glassy coat covering my eyes. I stood in line to see my sister one last time amidst a sea of strangers who regurgitated cliché condolences.

"I'm so sorry for your loss..."

"If you need anything..."

"She was so young, so pretty..."

Yes, I understand they felt a small amount of grief for my family, but that probably didn't stop them from going home that night and fucking the shit out of their wives, husbands or some stranger they met at a bar. Each time someone came up to me I just imagined them thrusting their body into someone else. Still, I gave a faint smile and told them "thank you".

Being back in town was always nostalgic, especially if you've been away for three years. There was just something about being back after your sister blows her brains out with a pistol that makes it a little less of a trip down memory lane, however.

The line moved slowly. I'm not sure when the memories came, but they showed themselves into my mind without bothering to wipe their feet first. I remembered my sister and I when we were little. I told her I had an imaginary friend once and she got real excited. She kept on asking what mine looked like and what was it's name. I made up something on the spot and told her it was a monkey named "Cheeseball". She would go on and on about hers.

How it was a whisper just beyond the corner of a wall. A shy thing named Gunther, trying to talk to her. I always thought she was dumb because of it. It took me years before I told her I never had an imaginary friend.

The line lurched forward, a few old people queued behind me. I looked around the room and remembered thinking how none of our high school friends were here. I was never really popular, but she was a social butterfly. She was never without a date or some sort of boy toy. Though, she still insisted her imaginary friend was still her best friend. Though, later in the years she started talking about how mean he actually was. How his whispers were harsher and how he never had anything nice to say about anyone. She talked about how he was starting to peak around corners. A dark blur with piercing, yet hollow eyes.

I didn't care about that. I didn't care about anything. High school is where I developed clinical depression. Instead of talking about it, though, I planned to fix the problem permanently. I always thought I was going to be the one to pop a cap into my dome piece, not my sister.

Of course, I couldn't show how I felt in front of my family or friends. I especially couldn't let my sister see how truly empty I was. How every laugh echoed inside me and made me worried if people bought my feigned laughter.

I had my own secret area in the attic. I had a lot of stuff stashed away up there. I had a bottle of Jack Daniel's I stole from a liquor cabinet that belonged to one of my friend's parents. I had a bunch of suicide notes that I wrote out. Some were apologetic, others were hateful. I wrote them in case I drank enough liquid courage to do the deed.

I used to go up there and grab the gun I had hidden away. The one my sister found in dad's study room. She played with it one day and I took it away from her just before lecturing her on how dangerous guns are and how she should never play with them. I used to hold it to my head and pull the trigger. Letting it click against my temple.

I remember lusting for a bullet to tear through my skull and let death fill the hollowness inside me. Dad surprisingly never asked about his gun when he died of cancer. I don't think mom knew he ever had it.

Mom was sitting down at the funeral. She didn't bother getting up once. I was nearly at the casket. The closer I got, the more I remember when my sister and I stopped talking. The last words we exchanged. We were getting ready to go off to college and she came to me, worried about her stupid imaginary friend. She seemed so worried, I feel like an asshole for disregarding it. She talked about how he isn't shy anymore. How he'll be in the same room as her, standing just at the edge of her peripheral vision. I remember being fed up with it. With her.

With everything.

I told her how stupid she was having that imaginary friend still. How she was probably psychologically fucked up. I told her that Gunther wasn't real. I told her Cheeseball wasn't real. I told her it was all a lie. If a human being could shatter into pieces, that would have been the moment I saw my sister disintegrate.

We stopped talking after that. I guess her made up friend meant a lot to her.

I stood over her motionless body. She had a faint smirk on her face. I didn't touch her, kiss her or say anything to her. I just glanced at her for a hard few seconds and walked away. She really was beautiful.

I decided that I was done with the funeral and made a trip back home. I needed some of that Jack Daniel's I had hidden away in the attic. I was expecting everything to be covered in dust seeing how I've been gone at college for three years. Instead, everything looked exactly how I left it. Except, there was no more Jack.

"Of course..." I muttered to myself, picking up the empty bottle. Then, I noticed all my letters were gone, and so was the gun. Instead, there was only one. It was on printer paper, written with a sharpie.

Hey, bro,

I'm sorry, but if you're reading this, chances are you already went to my funeral and know what happened. I'm sorry.

That's all I can say. I'm sorry. Gunther was getting more and more aggressive and I couldn't deal with it anymore.

I know you told me never to play with guns... but I guess it went in one ear and right out the other!

And that was it. That was it. That was the last thing my sister said to me. I uncapped the bottle of whisky, not taking my eyes off of the paper and tried to swallow it's contents even though I knew it was empty. I threw the bottle and started laughing. I laughed until the tears cascaded down my face. I laughed until I wasn't sure if I was truly laughing or if I was sobbing.

It was all my fault.

All my fault.