This church is decorated beautifully! This family really has wonderful taste. Red and white carnations, a capella background music, shades of red and black compliment what everyone has decided to wear (some of these people apparently do not know proper funeral etiquette, but that’s not my business). I sit in the back and watch as my family – my family – walk in and take their seats. There’s a woman with my husband – my husband. I can’t say she isn’t pretty. She’s got a nice figure (of course), long blonde hair (of course), and the kind of face that’s attractive without being too threatening. I’m sure she’s just a laugh riot, too, and I bet she’s never let a drop of alcohol soil those pouty lips, and I just know she’s going to be a great housewife. Of course. Of course he’s “interested in where it could go”. So why toy with me? Why bother saying he loves me if he’s really interested in her? Maybe he’s just confused, he’s in a sort of transference situation. Yes, that’s got to be it. Once he sees me in my too-tight dress because I’m getting fatter and uglier and brunette-er by the second, he’ll fall to his knees and beg my forgiveness. I decide to make my huge scene after the service. Proper funeral etiquette, after all. No scenes in the sanctuary!

It's so cold in here! Why are churches so cold? I’m shivering through “It Is Well” and “I’ll Fly Away” (beautiful funeral songs, by the way, Amazing Grace is so overdone!). Finally, the message. She was a lovely woman with a lovely family and a lovely home in a lovely town and she drove her lovely child to lovely appointments and it was all so lovely. I could throw up lovely bile. But I haven’t had lovely nausea since I stopped the lovely sauce.

Finally! It’s over! Good grief, was that a sermon or a eulogy marathon?! Where was the verse about the time for mourning to be over?!

Everyone is standing and walking out, row by row (as is proper funeral etiquette), each person stopping by the casket to see the poor deceased wretch. And then stopping at each member of the family to talk about the poor, deceased wretch and how they are poor wretches themselves for their grief. It’s sad though, to see all of these people here. If I’d known how loved she was—this drunk just like me, but with mourners and music and flowers—maybe I’d have tried harder not to kill her.

Finally! My row is up to get the heck out of here! I walk up (down?) the aisle and nobody even looks at me. Not like they don’t have good reason to not look at me. I am the poor, deceased wretch’s killer after all. I make it to the casket and look inside. There I am. Reposed, somber, sleeping.

My phone buzzes.

“Hello?”

“Mom, Dad says we probably can’t afford to pay for your phone anymore, so this is my last voicemail. I just miss you so much. It hurts so bad. I wish this never happened. I wish you would walk in here right now and tell me everything is going to be okay and that you’re coming home. I love you, Mom, I love you so much. Okay, bye.”

Click.