"There are several ways to say that we miss you, but none of them will fill the void."

The preacher's grave and all-too-important tone fills the funeral parlor, echoing throughout the stark white room.

I sit and listen to Eugene Wilder's stepmother cry into her tissue. After electrocuting her son to death, I was expecting iron bars and an obscenely large roommate, not an invitation to a funeral.

But it wasn't like that.

Eugene didn't die from the shock. He was sick. Some random disorder had fried his heart at the exact moment he'd stuck the probe into the frog. So it wasn't my fault. That didn't mean I hadn't gotten the blame as soon as he croaked, though.

"Would anybody else like to say a few words?" one of Eugene's uncles asks as he stands onstage.

Everyone's dressed like they're planning on going to the local bar after they bury Eugene. His mother, who had been nursing a cocktail since this whole charade started, had even paid for a bartender to make drinks for everyone.

I wave my hand a little in the air.

Eugene's uncle glances around, sees my diminutive, shady form sitting in the crowd, and kind of pales. I'm sure seeing the last person who did mouth-to-mouth on his nephew for nearly ten minutes straight is a gross, albeit deeply...deeply... homosexual, reminder of what occurred between two men in a science lab.

I wave my hand harder, and Eugene's mom sees me and sniffs.

"Darcy? We would love to have you say a few words," she tells me, her voice choked. "After all, you were the last person he talked to before he . . . he . . ."

She trails off, and then she bursts into tears again.

My heart feels like it's in a vice. I have a thing for death, but that doesn't ever make it easy to digest. I stand up and shuffle toward the stage where Eugene's coffin rests.

It's closed, thankfully.

Beautiful blue stripes run down the black lid, just like his motorcycle, which is parked nearby.

Eugene's uncle's gaze tracks my slow progress all the way to the podium. Then he puts his hand over the mic when I come over, his beady eyes narrowing behind his thick glasses.

"If you say anything remotely creepy, I will cut you off. Do you understand?"

I jerk the mic away from him.

"I have more respect than that," I reply primly, my hands shaking about as much as my voice.

I can't look Eugene's family in the eyes. I knew their grief. I had felt it, lived it. Sat watching Wheel of Fortune with it for two days straight.

But until yesterday, I had no idea that grief could push someone to such an extreme.

I turn to the audience, steadying my voice, strengthening it with resolve.

"Eugene Wilder has gone away," I start, and the room goes silent, the occasional nervous cough puncturing the air. "He is not dead. He's just stepped away. From his lips, I felt him breathe his last. I felt the kiss of death."

Gasps ripple through the funeral parlor.

Eugene's uncle's face goes tomato red.

"That's why I've fallen in love with him," I say. "And nobody can take that away from me."