November 24th, 2023.
Omaha National Cemetery. Omaha, Nebraska.
— Sincerely, Apektado.
"O God, creator and redeemer—"
It was cold. Not in the traditional funerary sense, of course. It wasn't pouring down rain like in the movies. Instead it was a slow cold. The November chill clung onto your skin, clawing through layers of cloth to make home inside your bones. It empathised with the air of grieving that hung like dregs in the air.
Charlie wished he'd brought gloves.
The glass beads of the rosary between his fingers breathed in cold much sooner than his skin. He prayed, somewhat, for him to be able to go back inside of the warmth of the funeral home. No, instead they all sat outside while the priest rattled off verses.
Charlie didn't know his uncle Frank all that well. He was American, Charlie was British. Enough said.
"We are so grateful that you have made us all in your image, giving us gifts and talents with which to serve you."
Small puffs of breath came from Charlie's mouth as he mouthed silently along. He'd been made to practice this thousands of times. The priest speaking over his uncle's casket had criticised every syllable thousands of times over. Not strong enough. Not meek enough. Not emotional enough. Not humble enough.
"Thank you for Frank's life, and all the years we shared with him. We lift him, to you today, in honour of the good we saw in him and the love we felt from him."
Ironic. From what Charlie read in news articles, his uncle was not a good or loving man. He figured that it wasn’t proper funerary etiquette to say that the deceased was a hypocritical scumbag piece of shit who deserved to get shot. He couldn't argue with anyone who decided to see past it.
"Please give us the strength to leave him in your care, in the knowledge of eternal life through Jesus Christ."
Charlie locked eyes with the priest. He felt like his brain was being bored. Like he'd known he'd thought those insults just now.
"Amen."
He breathed out, shakily, joining the rest of the mourners.
"Amen."
They'd been inside the funeral parlor for half an hour.
Apparently putting a man in the ground made everyone collectively hungry. That, or it had gotten too cold to be depressed outside.
Either way, Charlie didn't find the food all that good. Americans had a unique talent for ruining anything they touched. The cold cuts were dry enough to sponge saliva. The vegetables were somehow undercooked and overcooked. The potatoes were flat and slathered in faux cheese sauce.
At least the Hawaiian Rolls weren't bad. You really can't fuck up store bought sweet bread though.
Charlie sat at a far off table, with his scrub daddy salami and four bread rolls. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now. Sitting next to his father while he ugly cried over his uncle had sapped his battery for the day.
While he buried his attention into his food, he didn't notice the click—click—click of the priest's steel heeled boots. He sat down next to Charlie, startling the teen.
“Charlie.” The priest acknowledged.
“Ah— Christopher!” Charlie rushed to finish his bite. He swallowed the greasy wad of salami. "Father Christopher," he said, more careful with the pronunciation. It wasn't a family thing, but Charlie respected the titles, even if he didn't really believe in any of it.
"Are you eating those rolls without butter?" Christopher looked at the pale little island of bread on Charlie's plate, then at Charlie, eyes pinched in mock dismay. "The true American experience, denied."
Charlie shrugged. It didn't strike him as strange until that moment: the priest out of vestments, dressed in all black but not the shiny magic kind, hair tied back, with a face that was weirdly old for a man his age.
“That was… a nice uhm. Speech up there, Risto— Christopher.” Charlie let habit slip his tongue again.
Christopher skirted around it, “Thank you, Charlie. It's only my job.”
The two sat in silence for a bit, Charlie trying to focus on his surely not actually Hawaiian rolls, and Christopher silently sipping his coffee.
“You know… It's okay to cry.”
Charlie started at Christopher. Did he think he actually cared about his uncle Frank? He didn't know the guy.
… Whatever, play along, he supposed.
“Ah— ah… I'm all cried out.” Charlie laughed nervously. He couldn't tell if Christopher bought it, or just didn't care. The priest's gaze was blank, polite. Maybe that's what most priests did: offered out tissues, then quietly checked out until their real job started up again next morning.
"You've got a long flight back?"
Charlie nodded, took down half a bread roll to avoid saying anything. He did not want to explain Heathrow, London, the misery of a seven—hour layover, or how his father had insisted on buying the tickets last—minute directly through the airline website, as if that would “show them” something. Charlie’s pockets had been decimated just converting the currency for the pay—on—arrival cab.
The room was loud with the kind of laughter Charlie hated—loud and forced, sticky with grief’s aftertaste. He picked at his plate.
“I leave for home tomorrow. I heard from your father that they're staying for a week. I assume the same for you?” Christopher asked.
Charlie bit back the urge to correct him and say ‘our father’, “Yeah… handle Frank's will.”
Christopher's eyes narrowed. “You don't want to be here for another week, do you? Surely your first stay in America shouldn't be so miserable. I can book you a ticket and you can stay with me until your father and stepfather are back.”
Our father and stepfather, Charlie thought, “Ah… that's not necessary—”
Christopher gave him a look… he wasn't asking. He was telling.
“… I'll have my bags ready by morning.” Charlie muttered, defeated.
“Good.”
Charlie sunk back into his bread rolls, defeated that he once again could not stand up to Christopher. “Uhm… if I may ask… why are you leaving so soon? I figured you'd stay for Uncle Frank's will— considering you liked him a bit.”
“I have to prepare for the next semester at the university.” Christopher lamented, “I work for the church it’s attached to, but that unfortunately means I have to deal with the students.”
Charlie didn't want to imagine Christopher in a lecture hall. He pictured the man standing at a podium, students slumped in thin rows, a cloud of incense and old cigarette smoke clinging to everything. Christopher, scolding them about the Greek roots of “philia” or the ethics of dormitory fornication, would be either feared or ignored, if Charlie guessed right. He couldn't imagine anyone confessing to this priest and expecting absolution; the man would probably just recommend a good book or beat them with a whip.
Charlie finished the bread, feeling the sugar burn on his gums.
“Sounds rough,” he said, then regretted it. Sounded automated, something a kid would say to a teacher or a grocer. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. He didn’t want this conversation; he wanted to go home, to crawl under three blankets and rot with his phone and a dumb horror movie.
“You’ll like the university. Picturesque, especially this time of year. The hodad donors love their climbing ivy.”
“Never seen it.”
“You will.” Christopher’s voice was final, and then suddenly, warm again. He reached across the table—not for Charlie’s limp hand, thank God, but for one of the rolls. He plucked one, split it with priestly precision, and slathered on a packet of pale butter.
“I suppose you’ll want to see your old room first thing,” Christopher said, chewing. “I haven’t touched it, other than boxing some things. You’ve always got…” He trailed off. Maybe he had meant to say something like souvenirs or hobbies, but instead he just shook his head and went back to his coffee, finishing it off.
Charlie’s mind slotted the rest of the encounter into a folder marked: “Uncle’s Death: Awkward Aftermath.” He excused himself as soon as politeness allowed, left Christopher to shepherd the last of the respectable mourners, and ducked into the corridor that led to the tiny funeral home restrooms, the kind with clinical fluorescent lights and mysteriously wet floors. He didn’t need to piss or puke, but he stared at his own face in the mirror, a pale smear above his black shirt, for a while anyway.
The eyes were definitely his… something's. His dad didn't talk about his biological parents that much, aside from cursing his biological father's name like it was some long lost biblical evil. Kirosé hadn't told Charlie about any mother he may have had, but Charlie didn't feel the need for it either.
He was… content.
In his ugly body.
Charlie didn't like his appearance much. He was full—blooded Filipino, but his hair was far darker than any of the pictures of his biological father. It tapered off into light ends that looked like he was slowly going transparent. His skin was a warmer tan, his stepdad Barott suggesting once that it had a baked peanut colour.
His limbs felt too long for his body, especially considering his fast metabolism. Charlie never gained weight anywhere other than his stomach and legs, but never stayed longer than a week.
Charlie had several prominent beauty marks across his knuckles, neck and face. He recalled distantly googling the meaning of them all, but the exact results escaped him.
And his eyes… his purple eyes.
His eyes were black, actually, the purple being a bright ring around the edges. His pupils were a jarring red, something that even scared him when he was looking at mirrors late at night.
Yeah… he was Charlie Agronvera, alright.
And he hated it.
He left the bathroom, blinking after the sudden resume to near—darkness in the corridor. Somewhere through the wall, a vacuum cleaner whined in preparation for the next unlucky group. Charlie’s shoes stuck slightly to the linoleum as he walked. At every step, he felt some pair of eyes on him: an aunt or cousin or one of Frank’s shadowy ex—colleagues, none of whom had cared enough to see Frank alive but all eager to perform measured mourning for the benefit of their own souls. He cut a path towards the main doors and shouldered through, taking a final breath of that cloying, stale—air—perfume blend.
Outside, the wind scraped his cheeks raw. It wasn’t just cold, it was the mean kind—straight off the prairie, with no buildings or trees between it and every inch of exposed skin. He didn’t see anyone else out here, not even the usual wolves of the nicotine break. He wondered if Americans just didn’t smoke, and all the shitty channel 5 movies were just lying to him.
He started walking. He didn't know exactly where, but he knew it was through the cemetery. Names carved into epitaphs he'd never known and never will know. A chorus sung in his ears of their woes and sins.
He looked around again, and saw shadowy forms surrounding the marble indicators. Charlie sighed loudly.
He fucking hated being a medium.
[Cont. Next Page [hit tapas limit :(]]
![ZERO [PT.1] — In the body of my ashes, there is a home.](https://us-a.tapas.io/sa/51/213006b8-c4a2-4a80-90a4-ba1e5d5ac3c0.png)
Comments (1)
See all