Black. What I used to think was the worst color, because it meant, resembled, nothing. That was not how I would want to remember Daddy. But that nothing color was everywhere. Black. Black.
"Nathan Hollister was a good man. A caring man. Someone who was loving. Someone who was loved."
Black. Black. Black.
"He will be remembered. He will be missed."
Black. Black. Black.
"But most of all-"
I jumped up. "I can't take this," I shriked, then ran out of the black funeral room.
This isn't right. I'm only 17. My dad can't die. I'm only 17.
A few days earlier, my dad was in a car crash. Nothing that was his fault. A drunk driver. Someone who crashed into him. But now he's dead. And that drunk driever got unharmed, got 6 weeks probation, just because his record was clean. But thats life.
I ran out of the funeral home. I really didn't know where to go. Who to see. What to do.
It was a beautiful day outside. Too beautiful for a funeral day. If the funeral should be black, so should the world. The sun was shining, and people were busteling on the streets. I walked a little while, then found a dainty, perfect little park. I entered the gates and found the nearest bench. I collapsed onto it.
I felt terrible. Hateful. Just wanted everyone gone. Why did my father, of all people, have to go through...well, death?
My phone rang and I mentally groaned. My mother was going to be furious. She insisted that I kept my emotions to myself, at least for the funeral.
I flipped open my phone. "Mom, I know, can-"
She interuppted. "It's okay. I was about to do that myself. Come back, okay? We're going home."
I sighed. "Okay, Mom. Thanks."
"Be back in 10 minuets," She said and hung up. I stood up and started walking back in the direction I had came. My mother. The stout, chubby-ish, but beautiful woman. And she really was. She had chesnut-brown hair, and chocohlate eyes. Thick lashes, and long, elegant fingers. Everything about her was me, except for her weight and figure.
When I reached the funeral home, my mom was standing by out car. "Ready to go?" She asked me as I approached. Despite how much I really wanted to, I shook my head.
"You can get in the car, Mom, but I want to say goodbye first." Her eyes widend, sort of sadly, and she nodded. "Take all the time you need," she said.
I turned towrd the doors to the home. The service was still going, but I went in the home, opened the doors to our funeral room, and walked right to my father's closed casket.
The man currently speaking looked at me. "Uh,-"
"Just keep going." I snapped. I looked at the black framed picture on top. My eyes immeadetly brimmed with tears as I looked sraight into my father. His salt-and-pepper hair was fresh, and so were his eyes. He was grinning. He was happy. I liked to think that's how he was at the time.
A teardrop fell onto the casket. Than another. I caught the next one on my finger and stroked my fathers hair on the picture with my wet finger.
" 'Bye, Daddy." I whispered, then ran out of that black room for the second and final time.
