2. The Coffin at the Altar
"Violet... Violet wake up, honey!" My mother's voice pulled me back - back to the stubborn and stone hard reality. I would never be able to escape it, life certainly had a firm grip on me. I sighted and looked around. My mother looked worried at me from the other side of the car door. We were here now. Apparently. She knocked at the car window again and looked at me with a sad smile. "Violet, I know this is difficult. But we have to. We... People expect a funeral, don't you see?" Her voice cracked a little. She didn't want to. But people expected us to. Who wouldn't attend to their own daughter's - or sister's - funeral. Only crazy people. Maybe we weren't that sane anyways. I opened the car door. Even though there was nearly nothing I wanted less than this funeral, it was happening. And I had to attend. People expected me to be the mourning older sister. And I was her older sister - I was mourning. But to be honest, and I knew that nobody on the outside would be able to understand this, I was glad she was dead.
"Remember to cry, Violet," I instantly looked at my mother, and I could see she was already regretting what she had just said. "Why wouldn't I mother, my sister is dead. Remember?" My sardonic answer made her speechless. But her sharp gaze told me, I had to be careful. I knew she meant it well. We had to pretend - had to pretend to care for her death. My gut feeling kept telling me how cynical we were not to sincerely care - but how could I. After everything, how could I care? She was my sister and that was what made me sad and angry - not her death.
The sun finally came through the grey and rainy clouds and the church in front of us stood tall and bright. It was a Catholic church with all it's sculptured details. The guarding angels' faces were turned towards the church's mighty spear - facing heaven, summoning God. Many people were arriving already, and cars kept on showing up. There were not many free parking spots left. An old woman came up to us. She looked genuinely sorry for us. "My condolences," her wrinkly eyes dug deep into mine. A nervous smile crossed my face as I replied the old woman. "Th... Thank you Mrs. It is all very... Tragic," my mother simply nodded as a reply and send the old woman a sad-looking face. The old woman nodded and turned around. My mother and I looked at each other. We could do this.
The church bells started ringing.
Blood was everywhere - all over my dress. And the voices, the resignedly voices that cried for help. My heart was beating loudly. My stomach turned. Maybe they could hear me? I did not care what it would take. I had to get out alive, I simply had to. Now that I had seen who she really was - what she really was, my mind was set. I had to survive. I had to stop her. Even if it would be the last thing, I ever did. I had to. She was, after all, my sister.
My thoughts were interrupted by yet another man whose condolences could not be expressed enough - at least he said so. Several times. I took my mother's hand as we walked into the house of God. The bells were still playing their melancholic melody. Monotonously.
As we entered the church there was only one thing, which caught my eye; at the end of the flowered aisle, in front of the alter the black coffin was placed. Sucking the happiness out of every person who came too near. There she was. My sister. My mom squeezed my hand as her lips whispered familiar words in my ear: "Remember to cry, Violet."