The funeral arrives, all too soon. You've barely been living in the past few days. No, you've been sat on the couch staring into space for hours, only eating and drinking when you wander into the kitchen at random and only sleeping when you forget what haunts your dreams.
You make an effort, at least. You drag on some black clothes and cover your greasy head with a hat. You wipe the salt water from your face at last.
It's strange. All those years of trying to express yourself through your style and now you finally look like you. It's laughable, really. That someone should die for you to find yourself. That someone should die for you to realise that you don't even want that self.
They cry, but you don't. You've already been drained of all your tears. Your sobs. Sobs that bring a sharp pain in your chest like glass is embedded in your heart and every time it beats the glass slides deeper. Sobs that consume you until you can't speak, you can't breathe, can't think.
You should have died instead. You know it. Don't try to deny it, you can't. It's true.
You're supposed to give a speech. Go on, do it. You step up, gaze fixed firmly onto your hands. You start to speak.
"You are all here today," your voice comes out hoarse, barely a whisper, "to witness the passing of a great, great person. Someone who's been there for all of us when we most needed help. It's -"
You clutch your hand to your mouth. You can't do it. You're so pathetic. You can't talk to your own family.
You run from them, run from their love and affection. The love and affection you know you don't deserve.
You lean against a tree, hauling breath into your ragged lungs.
"Idiot," you whisper to yourself, "Fool. Stupid moron."
It's all true.
Biting your lip, you bury your nails in your arm and rake them down. And again.
You deserve it.
Blood drips on the ground.
"Please let me stop. It hurts."
It should hurt. It should. Give yourself the pain they're too afraid to give you.
"My family wouldn't hurt me."
They're not your family anymore. Not after what you did.
You whimper. How pathetic.
A gust of wind dives through you, into your fresh wound. You gasp. Realising what you've done, you tug your sleeve over your injury, hoping the blood won't seep through. Slowly, clutching your arm, you rise and stagger home.
You disinfect. Then you dress. Then you drink.
You slip into an alcohol-induced stupor.
It's your fault.