War ⇔ Cashton ✓

Dead Eyes and a Lonely Casket

ASHTON

I realized today, dressed in a black suit that feels almost suffocating, that I don't have one single picture of Michael.

I don't know why it bothers me as much as it does. My mind is filled to the brim with memories and clips of his face and his laugh, but I don't have one physical copy on me to shove in my pocket as a reminder. I feel almost worthless, like a shitty friend to the deadened boy inside the unopened casket. What kind of shit person spends over a year with their friend, covered in each other's blood and risking their lives for one another, without taking one measly picture?

I didn't even realize it until I was standing in front of my bedroom mirror, staring at my reflection with broken lens for eyes, struggling to see clearly out of my unfocused pupils. I was gazing dully at my black dress shoes as Calum, yet again, fixed my tie, and it suddenly occurred to me. I have hundreds of photos of Calum. They are stuffed everywhere they can fit-- hung on the walls, stuffed in my wallet, hidden in the pockets of my clothing. But Michael. Not one picture. I can nearly feel the separation between us growing thicker and thicker, difficult to even see through.

His funeral is today. I've always hated funerals. I hate everything about them. I've been to too many, I've sat through my father's, and my brother's, and my sister's, and countless numbers of grandparents and acquaintances and old friends throughout the years. Death seems to follow me like a black fog, seeping through my skin and swirling through my veins as it kills all my white blood cells so that all I can do is wilt.

Calum and Mali are at my house this time, unlike the award ceremony. They arrived on my doorstep with black clothes hastily strung over their arms, apologetic looks on their faces as they sheepishly admitted to their parent's fighting. I of course let them get ready here. They've done it a number of times before.

I'm not at all looking forward to the funeral. The dreaded reception where all the relatives and friends sit around a room and sip at iced tea, letting the feeling of death wash over them like an ocean filled with oil. I don't want to look at any of them. They'll all act like they care, and they will all share their favorite stories of the boy, but I know that they could care less. They didn't send one letter to him during his entire time at war, not one. He got them from his mother, occasionally one or two from his father, and that's it. He could joke around all he wanted about girlfriends and models, but his parents were all he had. His parents, and us. It's no wonder he wanted to enlist in the army. I would have as well.

Luke will be a mess, that's for sure. He's broken already, with the mere separation. I can't imagine his reaction when Michael's death is laid out in front of him and displayed like a kid's show and tell presentation.

I've already told Calum that I'll be with Luke the majority of the time, because knowing the blonde, he'll want to get himself away from his family, he'll want to be beside me. He can't spill all his horror stories about blood and gas fumes and war tales to his parents, who would probably pass out from fright at just the thought. He can't sit and cry on his mother's shoulder like a small toddler, because Luke will feel like he has to be strong, although the entire world knows he is not. He's lifeless, just as pale and dead as Michael is in his grave.

As the four of us-- Mali, Calum, my mother and I-- ride in my mum's car to get to the church, it's all I can do not to break down right there. I know I need to cry now, so I don't in front of Luke, but I can't. I brace my hands together and press my palms against one another to try and let out some adrenaline. I sit with my head leaning against the window, Calum sitting quietly in the seat beside me, his hand clasping his sister's.

I'm a statue beside him, neither moving nor breathing. My chest starts to burn after a few seconds, but I let the pain flood my veins like a fire. I need it, I need to feel it in order to feel alive. I shouldn't feel this dead, not going to a funeral where it will be made painfully clear that I'm alive and Michael's not.