Have a Little Hope

3. Have a Little Funeral

Hello! I know it's all rather sad right now, but have a little Hope they'll get happier ;) enjoy and do tell me what you think! Also, if these quick updates are TOO quick, let me know too. Oh and side picture is of Hope! 

A week has passed and I’ve properly cocooned myself in the guest room. Well, it’s my room now, I suppose. I’ve not been back to my actual home with my dad and I don’t know when that time will come. I’ve barely washed this week and am pretty sure I’ve got back down into my size eight clothing now from my lack of appetite.

Despite spending so much alone time, I have not dwelled on what has happened too much. I have made every single conscious effort to repress what has happened to the back of my mind until the funeral, or the ‘farewell ceremony’ as Nan put it softly last night. She had brought me a huge cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream on top and spare cocoa sprinkled on top. She had tried to breach the subject about what was going to happen, but I’ve completely shut her down. I didn’t and still don’t want to know. Reluctantly, she nodded and left me alone with my drink. Her movements had become slower and her face had aged about ten years in the matter of a few days. She had so much to talk about, I knew she did, but I couldn’t let her verbalise those thoughts.

It makes it too real.

I don’t want it to be made real. This whole thing should not be happening. It denied me the miracle that my dad would walk back through the front door and save me from this torment. I’d give him a right old rollicking for pulling the stint, but I’d forgive him instantly. That was our relationship, squabble and make up with one another as soon as it started.

I’d do absolutely anything to get him back and yet I know that’s not happening and never will.

Seeing as my Nan couldn’t speak to me, she has written me a letter instead and slid it under my door whilst I was in the shower; the only shower I have taken in a week, which is repulsive thinking about it. I haven’t opened it yet, it’s still sat on my bedside table, begging me to, but I refuse. I don’t want to know what is says in there.

It takes another two days before I leave my room and walk down the stairs. The shock on my grandparent’s faces made me feel a bit guilty. They’ve been so strong for me these past couple of days and I’ve not been giving them anything back, but they just don’t understand what I am going through. Sure, my dad was their son, but that man was my dad. That is more important, isn’t it? He was all I had and now I have nothing.

‘Breakfast Hope?’ My Grandpa asks me as the kettle boils. He’s dressed unlike me. I’m still fashioning the same mint green polka pyjamas I’ve been wearing since it happened that they’re practically stitched to my skin they’ve been on that long.

I shake my head and sit at the old fashioned breakfast table, fiddling with my fingers.

‘Want to talk?’ Nan asks optimistically.

‘No,’ I answer shortly.

She sighs before adding, ‘Well, when you do, you know we’re here. But we do need to talk about a few things.’

‘No,’ I answer again stubbornly, crossing my arms.

Rolling her eyes, my Nan heaves herself up and pours the kettle that has just boiled. ‘I’m not used to you being stroppy.’

Unable to respond wittily, I stay silent and raise an eyebrow at my Grandpa who is staring me out.

‘The funeral, Hope, it’s in two days time,’ he blurts out, looking cautiously over at me.  

I can practically feel my heart constrict painfully. No. Two days? Why so soon? Is it not enough that I’m grieving that I have to be dragged publically to cry my heart out for my dad?