Ultraviolet ✔️

21.1

Chapter Twenty-One

That night, my dreams are memories again. Like a sizzle reel of my life played in between bouts of REM, these pop up every once in a while. My first kiss is what kicks it off, my first vision next, and so on. The one I remember most vividly, the one that seems to drag the longest, is my grandfather's funeral.

It was my first funeral. I've never been good with death and we had such a small family that funerals were relatively uncommon anyway. I'd seen plenty of demises across the board, but never anything intimate. When this happened, it was personal and occurring in the present rather than somewhere distant. As a result, I was terrified.

My mother had forced me into an uncomfortable black dress and even a rosary I never liked wearing because it always poked at my neck. The stockings I had on were also a few sizes too small, so I could hardly move my legs, let alone walk anywhere. It felt morbid to be wearing a tortured carving of Jesus, but it wasn't like I was allowed to take it off. By that point, I'd decided I didn't believe in the God stuff, but that didn't seem to change her mind about shoving religion into my life.

The whole thing was held at a church with a mostly elderly congregation. It smelled like old lady perfume and wine from communion. The whole time, frail people droned on about what a great guy he was. They painted him in stories I'd never heard, giving him new traits I'd never seen. My mother had only recently reconnected with him before he died since they never knew one another as she was growing up.

I'd watched him die of a heart attack twice. First in my vision, and then right on my kitchen floor after school one day. Everyone around me had the blessing of not knowing what he looked like in his final moments. They were unburdened, but I was not.

They had already buried Grandpa Richie a few weeks before, so his grave was covered by a mound of dirt and a marble headstone my mother had taken endless time to make 'perfect' for him. He didn't seem like the type who wanted a huge, fussy funeral, but I barely knew the man so I wasn't an expert on it.

I hadn't talked much in weeks. I didn't even have tears to offer them. I just sat there and listened to stories about a person I had only seen a couple of times. I sang along with them for every hymn, but the guilt made me feel like I was suffocating.

I had watched him die. In my mind, that meant I was responsible for him not being alive.

Throughout the service, I'd been touched by so many new people. It was a constant flow of visions, circling through my mind on a loop. I was relieved when the preacher started talking because it meant I would get a break from it all. The affair was miserable, and leaving was the best part of that depressing afternoon.

My mom wanted to make sure the headstone she had picked came out the way she wanted. She had spent weeks trying to come up with the right words to immortalize and even longer trying to get the right price.

I knelt down in the dirt beside the grave, my tights being soaked by the wet grass under my knees. It felt sort of weird, sitting a few feet above his bones, but I felt as if I owed it to him to be there.

I wasn't religious like my mother. I didn't believe in much of anything, especially considering my circumstances, so I wasn't sure he was up in the sky or anywhere at all. I didn't think he was watching over me, though part of me wanted to believe that. If he was in heaven, he would hear the apology I was trying to make.

"I'm sorry," I finally managed to say, my voice so small.

Before I could say anything else or even work up the energy to shed a tear, my mother nearly pulled my arm out of my socket, hollering at me for getting mud on my good clothes.

I didn't go to any more funerals, not that it mattered. I didn't ever have another chance to because we weren't close to anyone else who passed away, but I vowed that day that I never wanted to again.

The next memory that came was the first and last therapy appointment I ever attended. It was the Monday after the funeral, during winter break. Scheduled because I hadn't spoken any real sentences since he had died, it was the only real attempt my mother had made to reach me. She didn't tell me that it was because I was becoming an inconvenience to her.

The shrink sat me down in his office, hands folded on the table as he stared at me from the other side of the desk.

"Your mother says you haven't talked in months," he observes, flicking through his notes. "She thinks it has to do with your grandfather's death. Is that true?"

I shake my head. Because that isn't the whole reason. Yes, his death weighed down on my conscience out of a twisted sense of obligation. I wasn't talking because I didn't have anything important to say, and because everything I wanted to say would sound utterly crazy.

"So why don't you tell me why you aren't speaking, Violet?" His eyes were locked on mine in a manner that made me uncomfortable. I felt as though he were looking at me like I was a problem to solve, a means to an end.

"I just didn't want to," I lie. "Didn't think my mother would care so much. The woman never shuts up."

The answer was good enough for him, even though I knew he didn't entirely believe it. I was certain my mother only wanted this to be a quick-fix: a one appointment sort of scenario. She didn't think that I needed help.

I said a few words to her in the car about how I was doing well in school to appease her. It worked well enough. For weeks, I only spoke when spoken to. Only if I had to. It took a while for me to learn how to deal with it all, how to be a good daughter who never voiced the grim reality she faced. Inside, I was dying. I was unraveling with every vision, every reminder that the people I loved were one day going to die in horrible ways.

But I learned to adapt.

When I'm finally let go from the clutches of my dreams, it's early morning. In his sleep, Joel pulls me closer to him, and as he continues to breathe deeply, undisturbed, I lie awake and wait for the sun to fully rise. We have a big day ahead of us, and one that will probably be uncomfortable. There's no point trying to rest now.