| poems {afi} |

one |

Seventeen, dysfunctional, and stressed. Those were the three words to describe the being of Eva Janet Franklyn. She knew as her life progressed it would become more difficult to do something as simple as getting dressed in the morning. The thought occured to her as she subtly wiped a small tear from the corner of her copper eyes. There she stood, at the burial of her mother, the sun reflecting off of her fair face. She tugged at the Peter Pan collar of her dress and clutched the rose she bought, perspiration forming in her small palms. Family members and friends crowded around the small burial under the sagging tent. Cries and whispers erupted from the crowd of faces in black clothing. The atmosphere was solemn, thick with despair. Eva's father's face collapsed in his hands, rubbing his temples with his thick fingers. Eva gazed at her father, deepening her sorrow even more. She wanted to cry. She wanted tears to devour her face, but her heart was in so much agonizing pain that it seemed like her brain had forgotten to bestow the emotions through her eyes. So instead, she shed only a single tear and continued to watch as the cemetery workers lowered the glossy mahogany casket into the boundless hole. A hand rested on her back, ceasing the thoughts racing in her head.

"I'm sorry you have to go through this, Eva. No little girl should have to experience losing her mother." It was her aunt Kristen, a woman who cared about her reputation than her sister. Eva was surprised she was even at the funeral. She gave her aunt a digusted scowl, her actions gone unoticed as the woman stared intriguingly at her petite reflection in a compact mirror. Kristen was never one to fight with her sister, but even families in their old neighborhood knew she was the favored child. So instead of brushing off the assumption like any other tot would, she flaunted the label like a new designer purse. Expensive clothes, rich husbands, and posh companions were just few of the things she would throw her sister's face. She was the better one. Always was, always will be.

Eva could see the smirk in her conceited aunt's eyes. Kristen was the one with the smartest kids, the most money.

And to top it all off, she was alive.

Eva swallowed down the crude words that she ached to blurt out to her aunt, and kept her eyes fixed on the limp rose in her hand.

"I know."

Satisfied with her niece's reply, Kristen scurried away on her patent leather heels. Her words echoed repeatedly in Eva's already clogged head. "No little girl should have to experience losing her mother." Little? She begged to differ. Damn near eighteen, a solid driver's license, and her own car. The word 'little' angered Eva, as if her aunt was saying that she didn't know how to handle a death, much less the death of her beloved mother. But in retrospect, anything that aunt Kristen said to Eva irritated her.

The burial continued, wearing Eva and her uncontrollable emotions down. Her ear was constantly filled with halfhearted condolences from her distant relatives. Only a few people really seemed to care about her loss, and that was just fine with her. She always knew people pretended to care when someone died. They always loved them more in the grave than in living skin.

And that's what hurt Eva the most.

*°*
The funeral attendees were now crowded in Eva's kitchen and living room of her father's undersized apartment. Many had left after the burial due to "errands" or "other affairs". Aunt Kristen was one of few who simply left because like most of the family, there were much serious things to take care of than a dead sister. Eva thought that maybe Kristen couldn't stand being out of her element, away from her wealthy husband and precisely perfect trophy children. She shrugged it off, and instead of socializing, she trudged to her room and laid restless on her bed.

She still hadn't cried. Her throat felt dry with guilt, and her limbs laid limp and stiff against the fluffy white sheets. In that moment, she felt a presence. Goosebumps replaced the skin of her smooth arms and her heart progressed in rapid speed. It was her mother in her room, already watching her from the heavens. Ursula Franklyn, in her spirit, was present. Overwhelmed with despair and potential fear, Eva practially ran out of her room, through the halls, and out to the front stoop of the brick apartment building, people confused as to why this girl was racing her way through the building. She settled on one of the cold, rough steps and her head collapsed in her hands. Suddenly, all the composure in her head came tumbling down. She sobbed into her hands, making no effort to cease her bloodcurdling screeches and screams. Eva came to the conclusion that her pretentious ass of an aunt was right. She was little, incapable of handling any of the emotions that came with a tragic death like her mother's. The streets were empty, but she was certain that people in the building across the narrow road could hear her cries.

A certain burnette boy watched from his room window as a girl in a black dress weeped helplessly on the front stoop across the street. He adjusted his glasses, glancing down at his shoes, a pair of sleek all black hightops, blending in with his skin tight jeans.