Our Lady of Sorrows

This overwhelming sense of heaviness pushes down on my chest. With all the energy accumulated during my sleepless night, I force myself to sit up. I sigh greatly. If you were here, you’d be upset that I’d worn clothes to bed last night, reminding me morbidly, yet happily, that, “I won’t see that beautiful body for much longer.” I can see it now, you pushing yourself up laboriously, the wet sheets piling around your clothed torso, your lips moving crookedly. You were so hypocritical, wanting to see my body, but being mortified at the thought of me seeing your thin frame. I think you’re beautiful, Gerard.

I turn myself to the window. I don’t feel the need to do anything that isn’t necessary without you anymore. I haven’t opened the blinds since you were admitted into the hospital for good. The sheets haven’t been changed since the last time you had night sweats. Even with your night sweats, you were still cute when you slept.

I move towards the bathroom. The cold air bites at the small amount of skin that’s exposed. I pull off my shirt. “I’ve gotten thin too, Gee.” I say to my reflection. If it was five months earlier, I would have called out for you to join me, but I enter the shower alone now.

*

I haven’t worn anything nice in years. You know me. I’m only comfortable in tee-shirts and jeans. I search hazardously in the closet for the one suit that fits. You insisted that get the one with a waistcoat. It’s a shame you never saw me in it.

As I search through this avalanche of worn-out cloth on my knees, I find every single one of your favorite shirts. I fall back on my heels. I feverishly tug off my shirt, and drown myself in one of yours. I was always too short for your shirts, Gee, but you found it endearing.

I pull the collar of the shirt up to sit awkwardly above my top lip. The smell of you was and always will be intoxicating, but it won’t last for much longer. I keep your shirt on to hopefully cause my skin to smell like you again, like it has so many times before.

I continue my search for my suit, sniffing every so often to smell you and to hold the tears back. When I find the suit, my bitten nubs of fingers you called beautiful relentlessly tug at the ends of the blazer, black as a moonless night. You were my moon. No, that’s not an insult towards your alabaster skin, which only became more pallid in the end. Today will be the last day I get to see your gorgeous skin, raven hair(with your natural brown roots), artist hands, pointed nose, your everything.

I hang the suit on the doorknob of the closet. I won’t need it today, but I know I won’t have the energy to search for it tomorrow. I reenter the closet, searching for another button-down shirt. The only one I can find is the one that I wore to all of our dates, and I could tell, by our last couple dates, you’d gotten tired of it. To tell you the truth, I only wore it to tease you.

*

I enter the quiet room. Everyone's red-rimmed eyes dart to me. They know how I miss you. All their eyes gaze at me pitifully as I robotically walk to you. The coffin was a warm, cherry brown with silver accents, surrounded by your favorite flowers. You had picked it out, groaning the whole time about how morbid it was. I had just held your bone-thin fingers loosely, holding the tears harder than your hand. Everything just hurt for you at the time, and I just couldn’t put you through anymore for my own selfish needs.

When I reach the platform holding your coffin, I place my hand on the edge. For a warm, cherry brown, the surface is bitter cold and gnaws at my fingertips. A watery laugh escapes my lips at the sight of a bouquet of violets. Faithfulness. They would be your favorite flowers, Gee.

My eyes grudgingly move towards your face. They made you look so pretty, placing a perfect, white rose wrapped with a red ribbon on your lapel. You almost look alive and well. They got rid of your rashes and blotches, covering them with loads of makeup. The lips I wish to kiss again are pink and plush with stain, but the stiches holding them together are visible. My free hand runs smoothly across your thin face, thumbing over your protruding cheek bones. I would have thought you were gorgeous even with your brown blotches. Especially with your brown blotches.

My hand releases the cold-edged coffin, placing itself on your clasped hands. Your hands are free of any remnants of paint because in those last few months you were just too tired to paint.You were just too tired to do anything. I miss your skilled fingers. I miss watching them clean off your paintbrushes. I miss watching them run across my tattooed skin.

I pick up your left hand, still donning our promise ring. I kiss that knuckle. A cough travels throughout the room, reminding me of the thirty or so people in here. I become conscious of their prying eyes, and I just wish your parents had told me to come earlier, but we both know your parents never liked me. I’m highly surprised they let the ring stay on your finger, but that may be because it would have gone against your wishes to take it off. Another watery laugh escapes my lips, forcing the tears to fall freely. One falls on your hand, and the foundation on it slides off. I’m so sorry, Gee, one of your blotches happened to be under there. How many of these people don’t know about your illness? I bet your parents still blame me, but y’know I’d take the blame any day for you. Even if it’s not mine to take.

*

Day 368

It’s time for me to wear the suit. I roll out of our bed, and redo the meaningless actions that I took yesterday. The heaviness from yesterday has spread all over my body. My fingers feel numb.

When I’m satisfied that people can’t see your shirt under my white dress shirt, I pull the waistcoat on, buttoning it and tightening the strap. I take the blazer on my way out of our room. I walk past the kitchen; nothing seems appetizing at the moment. I leave the house without opening any blinds, which you used to remind me to do. I never really understood that. I walk down the concrete steps of our townhouse. The neighborhood’s changed so much since we moved in. I haven’t decided if it’s for the better yet.

I unlock the car after fumbling with one hand to find the right key. I hang the blazer on the hook in the backseat. I clumsily fall into the driver’s side, fumbling with numb fingers to find the key again. I put my hand on the gearshift, waiting for a warm, bony hand to place itself on top of it. Once my wait is proved useless, I drive towards the funeral home, stopping only once to gain control of my emotions.

*

After I buckle in, I slam my hands against the steering wheel, narrowly missing the horn. With tears rushing down my face, I scream. You can’t understand, Gerard, how hurt I am that your parents didn’t let me speak, that they didn’t let me go up there. I was the only one there for you in the end, and now they’re gonna pretend that it never happened, that I never loved you? All these people that don’t even know why you died went up there to speak about you. Trust me, love, I loved hearing their sweet words, but I wish mine were heard too. I would have kept your illness out of it if that was the problem.

My wet hands clutch the steering wheel. I didn’t even get a funeral tag to be part of your procession. I wasn’t even a pallbearer, Gee. I loosen the grip of one hand to search for a pair of sunglasses in the glove box. I slip them on my face to hide my tired, red eyes. Wiping the tears on the way, my hand returns to the wheel. I drive off.

When I arrive at the cemetery, everyone is already crowded around your grave. I find a spot where I can see through the shoulders of some random people. I see the priest reading again from a small bible. I can’t hear a thing over my or everyone else’s snuffles. Everyone passes and tosses a handful of dirt on top of your coffin, walking off after hugging, kissing, and apologizing. The priest closes the bible and makes a cross over his chest, shaking your parent’s hands before he ventures off too.

All the others that didn’t toss dirt slowly walk off too. Your parents watch me as I stand, unmoving. Your mother walks over to me, surprisingly pulling me into a warm hug. “I know.” She whispers against my shoulder. I hadn’t realized I was crying again until her dress felt soaked under my chin.

“You know what?” My voice croaks. It doesn’t sound like me.

“I know how you love him and he loved you, and that he would want me to do this.” Then she walks off with your father’s hand in hers, clutching for your dear life.

I place my journal on your headstone as workers shovel dirt over your body. Then I join the others metaphorically because they wouldn’t want me with them physically.

Notes

I always have to do so much research for my stories, and there's always one point where I'm like "why the hell am I doing this? it's only fanfic" OF COURSE IT'S FOR YOU MY DEAR READERS *kisses*(and my curiosity)

Anyway this is updated much earlier than I expected, but I'm just so inspired for this one and I'm not gonna complain about it.

You all have beautiful minds.
-Alex:)
P.S. I was raised Jewish, so I have no idea how Christian services go. Sorry!