Death by Relief
I stand,
waiting. I can wait for hours, minutes, years; however long is required of me.
For what, you may ask? Not what, but for whom.
I can see all
the way across the quiet street, through the closed panel doors to the altar
disguised by flowers. They are all sucked dry of colour, each plant pallid in
the dreary winter light attempting to shine through the church’s glass windows.
People, more than I’ve imagined, are sparse among the wooden pews, cloaked in
their dark attire and equally somber moods. There’s too many of them
surrounding the coffin. I can’t see his face.
From where I
stand, I see there is a man built like a watch tower emerging from the throng
with a plastic cup in his hand. He’s unconvincing. Moving up a few steps to
stand before the coffin, his back turned to the deceased, he clears his throat.
“I’m
thankful for us all gathered here today.” The crowd seems aware of his standing
there but doesn’t react. There’s no emotion in the man’s voice. ”Frank was… an
interesting person to have known, have worked with. It’ll be quieter with him
gone.” Murmur, finally. “There are no words that I can use to describe him.
Frank was just his own man. He was proud, that’s for sure.” Empty laughs.
“Wherever he is now, I bet the old guy is looking down at us and groaning his
complaints. Thanks.” He steps down, sipping from his cup. No one else takes the
man’s place up by the altar.
I have seen many
a death, multiple funerals with a family member or two crying, perhaps lighting
a candle; this is different. There are no candles, no handkerchiefs pulled from
stiff suit pockets- just pearl necklaces, un-smudged makeup and mothball-scented
dinner jackets. At last, as the silence begins to envelope the great hall of
the church, someone stands up. He doesn’t move to the front, just stares
undiscerning at the photo propped by the closed wooden crypt.
“I don’t know
why I’m here,” he says, and there is a response. At last, there is life in the
living as they react to his outburst. “And I don’t have any idea why you’re all
here. Everyone knows that no one
liked him.” This is getting interesting.
“He was cold,
bitter, always looking for someone to blame for his bad luck in the workforce;
he blamed us all, except for himself. I don’t know if the man had daddy issues
growing up or something, but he treated me like crap. You might be here because
you feel bad, never invited him for dinner after seeing him leave alone every
single day of his career; he always came to Christmas parties alone, I know I’m
not the only one who noticed.” Bodies stir uncomfortably, as if each person
feels the chill of the truth crawling along their spine. The man continues,
shrugging. “I never made the effort to get to know the guy. That’s the way it
was with Frank; you stay out of his way and maybe today you can have a coffee
break without him biting ‘ya. Whatever it was that made him the way he was,
none of us really cared until we found the invitation to his funeral in our
mailboxes.”
There was something in the air, “as though nothing important had befallen [them]”; these people just woke up for the truth in their own hearts to be revealed to them. Relief, maybe.
There was something in the air, “as though nothing important had befallen [them]”; these people just woke up for the truth in their own hearts to be revealed to them. Relief, maybe.
“Here,” someone
called, raising a glass. “He used to be the first one in at the office and the
last one out in the evening. I don’t think there’s any way any of us could’ve
helped him. He was just so… insincere. I think most of us were afraid to ask
him if he needed anything.” There are murmurs, minds working to override their
natural feelings of responsibility and guilt.
I stand with
some indignation, before catching myself. I do not possess emotion; I only have
a job, a calling. Whether or not this man was being recognized as a divine
design of Life or a passing soul was none of my concern. I tune out the voices
of the living, which is difficult after a muffled “To Frank; for bringing us
closer together without ever knowing” reverberates in my skull. My whisper
reaches the listener, who I know is fully awake despite his cold body.
“Its
time to go,” I breathe, my words flowing over the church visitors to the
coffin, hooking the man. After a moment, a figure exits the heavy church doors,
looking dazed.
He rubs his eyes
and forehead, walking toward me. “You’re a Reaper, aren’t you?” I know that I
don’t need to answer. “They’ll be alright?”He inquires, a mixed palette of
expressions painted on his visage. I have never been very good at the reading
of human emotions.
“They always
were. They always will be.” I place a cool hand on his shoulder, which I notice
is rough to the touch. His striped suit is beginning to tear away into the
Void, the inevitable. He is not frightened. Just lost. He is just another soul
to be found on the other side.
