I don’t recognize any of these faces. It’s scary. People greet me, but I barely hear them, nor do I reply. I want to go home. My aunt drags me along by the hand. She apologizes to them for my behavior. She tells me, “Come along now, Lily. I know you’re a bit down, but life must go on.”

No—I don’t want to be here.

Please, let me go home.

We lose ourselves in this sea of relatives unknown to me. It’s like I’m a tiny little boat without its captain anymore, who’s being pulled down the stream of an endless river. I counted how many times people called me Lily today. At sixty, I stopped trying to correct them. Without mom or dad, nobody will ever call me Ian or take me seriously again.

I don’t know why we’re lining up in the cold under the rain like this. It’s not like we’ll get to see my parents anyway. I tried telling the people in charge of the funeral that they didn’t need to close the casket before the guests arrived. No matter how messed up mom and dad looked, they were still the people that raised me. They deserved nothing less than to be called beautiful. They made me happy.

Maybe it’s because nobody knew them like I did, but I was told it was unacceptable to subject the guests to such horrors of life. “It’s our responsibility to make sure your parents are seen off properly before their burial.” When they spoke those words, I instantly knew there was no use in arguing any longer.

I took one final glance at the open coffins where they lay, yet, I could not see what they’d meant by the horrors of life. The true fear that stirred within my gut hadn’t been created by the state of the disfigured bodies lying before me. What scares me is the fact that they are destined to be buried many feet beneath the ground, left all alone in the heart of our planet to never wake again from their eternal slumbers. And one day, it will be my turn, too.

My stomach hurts. I can’t stand it—how frail humans are. I remember being three and telling mom I’d be an Android once I grew up. I recall being nine and deciding I’d enroll in a robotics field to make the best Android in the world. Now, I’m disgusted. I can’t even stand the thought of being near one. I wish they would all disappear.

A brief tap on my shoulder makes me realize that my aunt and I are already standing in front of the two, rectangular holes.

I don’t want to grab a handful of soil to throw onto the caskets, just like I didn’t want to wear this stupid dress in the morning that preceded this afternoon. But I can’t say no to them anymore, because they are the adults, and grown-ups always know better according to themselves. My Aunt told me and every other person we know that I’m going through a phase—a moment of confusion, caused by the death of my parents. She doesn’t listen. I hate her.

I grab the soil. I throw it. I don’t look back.

The next people in line replace our shadows. I stare up at the sky. It is grim, and the clouds aren’t showing any signs of clearing any time soon. I cannot help but feel a little selfish as the funeral comes to an end. Alongside their deaths, I’m also mourning the loss of a part of me I’m scared I might never get back.

I clutch at the fabric above my chest—at these vile, repulsive things that have started to grow.

I ask my Aunt if I can get changed now. “Maybe,” she mutters, without even meeting my gaze once. She’s never been one to spare me a smile. I miss my real family already.

Above us, thunder roars, and the rain isn’t showing any sign of letting out soon.

I used to love the word maybe. It was full of uncertainty and possibilities. It made me feel like I could do it all—like anything was possible. Yet, if I were to use it today, it would just make me doubt myself and the people around me. Because there are no maybes. There is only yes. No. There is only certainty. Cruel, cruel certainty.

Their deaths—yes. The identity that’s being stripped from me—no. My uncle’s loud cough—yes.

Do I even exist anymore?

No.

If I look to the grass risen by my feet and only listen to the sounds of pitter-patter—if I shut my eyes and ignore the people donning black, mourning their graves—I can almost picture us again before the incident; a perfect family having dinner beside the fireplace in the middle of a storm.

But my aunt tugs at my arm again, and I know it’s time to go.

Yes.

I say goodbye—to the memories. To the lullabies. To my mother’s warm voice and my father’s uptight laughter.

Goodbye to my dreams of becoming a mechanic, and goodbye to Ian Starke, a boy I would have liked to grow old with.

Mom, dad, thanks a lot.

For everything.

It was great being your son.

I love you.

Always.