#wtntask

Then, her heart stopped.  This is what Alice was telling her about.  She was attending her own funeral.  She covered her mouth, as her “vision” seemed to pan to the front.  The casket sat under the cross.  It was open.  It zoomed forward.  There she lay, in her best church dress, her blonde hair delicately curled.  You could tell they tried to cover up the scars and bruises from her fall with makeup, but you could still see them.  Tears ran down Cynthia’s face.  Music began to play and guests were invited to walk past the casket and say their last goodbyes.  The first row, was her closest relatives and friends.  Her parents were first.  She had never seen her father so--tired.  The bags under his eyes were large and purple.  His hands were around the arms of her mother, who he had to practically push along.  She was whimpering, and grasped a handkerchief in her shaking hand.

“Mom.”  Cynthia whispered, but of course, she could not hear her.  “Mom don’t cry!”

Her mother walked closer to the casket.  As soon as she laid eyes on her dead daughter, she shrieked, falling to her knees.  She screamed out, clutching her hands to her chest.  Her father picked her up again, dragging her away, but she was still yelling. “My baby! My baby!”  Cynthia didn’t know what to do.  She wanted to jump in and hug her and tell her it was alright, that she was still here but she couldn’t.  She was dead.

She couldn’t handle this.  She wanted to go, she couldn’t take anymore.  But of course, it wasn’t over.  Cynthia never in a million years thought she would see what she witnessed next.  The next person who came limping up to her coffin, was none other than her Harry.  Cynthia yelped out, his face was so real, it was right there in front of her but she couldn’t say anything.  She couldn’t run and kiss him, she couldn’t tell him she loved him one more time.  She could only watch in agony as tears streamed down his face.  He reached out and touched her hand softly.  

They had let him come.  Her parents, they let Harry attend.  They must have felt guilty, who knows, but he was there.  

He was pushing his weight on a cane, she had been right, her father did more than just fire him, but she pushed the thought away.  She focused on his face.  He was alive, he was hurt but so alive, and she had been stupid enough to leave him.  

His fingers lingered on her skin.  “Oh Miss Wood,” He began, “what are you doing in there?”  A tear rolled down his cheek, dropping on Cynthia’s pale skin.  “A lady as lovely as yourself shouldn’t be there.”  He choked out, just like he had when they first kissed.  “I’m so sorry Cynthia.”  He whispered.  “Oh god I’m so sorry.”  He pushed himself away from the casket, leaving her behind forever.

Cynthia screamed, she sobbed, she wanted to run to him, she wanted to tell him, tell everyone that she was okay.   But she wasn’t, she was stuck.  There was a chance Harry was dead by now, and she could’ve been with him, but instead she was here, alone.  

There was a band onstage, playing a slow tune as people walked by.  She covered her ears, not wanting to hear a single note.  

“No NO!”  She yelled.  It was all too much.  Her grandmother, her aunts and uncles, her cousins, kids from school, all the maids, Cook, Hattie, oh Hattie!  She was holding back her tears, wiping them away as soon as they popped up.  They were all crying, all so sad, and it was all her fault.  She made them this way.

“I’m sorry!”  She yelled.  “Please!  I’m sorry!”

Her cousin got on stage and took the microphone as the band started their next song.  She didn’t do anything but shut her eyes as he sung.  

Well, today I'm so weary, today I'm so blue

Sad and broken hearted and it's all because of you

Life was so sweet dear, life was a song

And now you've gone and left me, oh where do I belong?

And it's all for the love of a dear little girl

All for the love that sets your heart in a whirl

I'm a man who'd give his life and the joys of this world

All for the love of a girl

When she opened her eyes, she was back in her room.  She was alone.  She shut her eyes and screamed, clutching her heart.  Why, why did she have to see that.  No one should have to see that.  What did she do?

She had blue eyes that did not resemble a sea or the sky against precious green mountains. Her eyes were blue like sweaters on autumn nights and the rain that fell every summer. She had soft features that had always managed to make those around her feel warm and welcomed. Alice herself had always envied this simple yet eloquent way of existence that her mother carried herself with. 

Her plump legs were moving, slowly making their way toward something in the distance, someone. She was trying her best to smile, as if someone had filled her mouth with sea glass and she was trying to adjust so that they would not cut but she also did not want them to spill for they were valuable. She reached the taller man after a few steps, wrapping him in a warm embrace. It felt as if a camera had angled itself perfectly so that now the man had taken center stage, she would have recognized those freckles and the rabbit shaped birthmark anywhere. 

Ginger hair swayed as he turned around, looking behind him at something hidden in the shadows. The young girl still sitting in her home with paint drying quickly all around her, finally allowed the gasp she'd been holding in her throat to escape but that did not distract -- the vision had to continue. Arms unlaced and the man wrapped his arm around the woman's waist, as they moved forward she realized that they were not walking in a hallway but inside a church. Every row that the couple passed became illuminated, each one empty until the very first two were reached. 

Samantha. That had been her aunt's name. The one that taught her how to catch fireflies when they would visit down in Louisiana and braided her hair so tight that she was becoming bald. Beside her, her uncle Peter. She remembered crumb cake and sweet homemade lemonade on back porch swings from him. They were all fond memories and the fonder the memories, the more the scream attempting to claw it's way out of her succeeded. Her aunt Josephine held a darling baby boy in her arms. His rosy cheeks were just like she remembered them and her aunt's dark hair contrasted his pale skin wonderfully. Together they were a work of art, just sitting there ready to be painted by her but quickly her vision shifted and the thing that had been hidden in the shadows revealed itself. 

Assembled by expert hands and adorned with delicately hand painted delphiniums, she would have recognized the handy work anywhere. Mark. Alice was certain, in the part of her that was still somewhat aware, that if she were to turn her head toward the other side of rows she would have found him there in all his gray hair and top hat glory. It was a coffin, made explicitly for her. Gold lines curved and twisted along the rims, slowly leading toward the top. She was about to look, about to dare and see if it was truly her laying there, not blinking, not moving. 

A single cry pierced the air all around, sending shudders through the few that had gathered to kiss the ginger goodbye. Why, why, why, why, why. That was the word that continued to play throughout the entire room, it was screamed, it was whispered, it was felt. Her father settled her mother into the first seat before fiddling with his tie for a second -- a nervous reaction he'd always had -- and standing at the front, facing everyone. 

My -- uh, my Alice. S--She was...th--the sweetest...the most beloved piece of my life. Whenever Mary and I...whenever we argued, there was Alice. I--If you were having...having a bad day at all, there was Alice. She, she couldn't hear m--my sweet princess, but her eyes...God gave her these breathtaking eyes that settled u--upon everything; flowers, l--lakes...stars. She saw it all. The t--tears you held back, the laughter lines in...in everyone, l--like a sixth sense that...that she developed through her art. Umh, I--I don't think...no one will ever know why she's gone and...and I think as...as a father that is th--the part that hurts most but...but I'm not angry with you, Alice. I'm not...I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. 

He had gone into a trance like state, repeated the two words as if his entire life depended on them, as if those alone would bring her back. After a few more seconds of letting that continue, the priest whom had been standing back this entire time, settled both hands on her father's shoulders and sat him down beside her mother. There was a long knowing silence amongst everyone there, the knowledge that she was dead, as if that was the first time it truly had hit them. The priest stood at the front, repeating prayers in a voice so soft, of course, it was meant to sooth the wounded. 

Mary, her mother, stood up having denied any hand that tried to aid her in doing so. It was not a manner of being rude, it was her only way of attempting to be strong. She was wearing a long black dress, but not the type that swallowed people up, the kind that made her resemble a model for an ingenious vintage store in the fifties. She had short hair, leaning more toward a brown than a red, and as always she cleared her throat before beginning her speech. 

I remember...going to an old home goods store with my Ali. She..she had to have been no more than f--fifteen years old. Pink. Oh..Oh she hated  p--pink because...well, pink on anything other sunsets and s--sunrises was t--too dull for her. She wanted blue. Blue curtains, blue b--bed sheets, blue walls. E--Everyone...everyone keeps asking...asking themselves why and--and I think mainly people are trying t--to make it okay for...for my husband and me but time does heal all wounds. M--My Ali is never going to...to be blue storms and p--pink dresses...she was...her. Ali was here for a r--reason and..and I'm so so glad to have b--been her companion...her friend...her mother for th--those twenty one years. The best...the best twenty one years of my existence. 

Her mother didn't stare straight ahead, only took a moment's hesitation before settling back down beside her father. The two held hands throughout the rest of the mass, repeating prayer after prayer without it having any flavor in their mouth and looking back at their baby boy from time to time just to make sure he was still there. It was a quiet evening, snow continued to fall softly outside and all around them people were putting up their Christmas decorations, drinking hot cocoa, watching movies about the three ghosts of Christmas. It was so strange how life always managed to work out, those who were happy didn't even know there were silent reminders all around them of how fragile life could be. 

Yet another silence had fallen upon the group before a soft tune began to resonate throughout the old arched walls. Two girls had gathered at the back where the microphones were located, it was one she recognized because she knew the words to most all of the woman's songs. The music suited everything quite nicely, but the words each were crafted to feel like a sword stabbed in the deepest of all wounds. That was the end of it all, a soft song to serve as a final goodbye. People would continue to mumble her name, those around her who were depressed and ready to end it all would see her parents and think twice about their own decisions, but nothing would ever erase the memory of a mother clutching onto a coffin, not allowing her sweet child to disappear beneath dirt and dead leaves. 

Cynthia walked into her first day of work in casual attire.  She wore plain jeans and a t-shirt that had The Beatles written on it.  She knew they were a band, but she wouldn't be able to sing any of their songs if you asked her.  When she got there, she donned an apron that identified her as a worker.  She was to bring in loads from the trucks and stock the shelves according to the item.  Groceries went on one side of the store, and home goods on the other, with any clothing in between.  Her introduction to the store was brief, but she knew her way around by now anyhow.  She picked it up incredibly fast, and finished her first load in no time.  

Though the truckers that brought in the load usually picked over the items before dropping them off, the junk store workers got the second round before they were set out on the shelves.  Cynthia looked at everything her in basket before setting on the shelf, making sure she didn't want it for herself.  She came across a nice square pillow that she deemed exceptionally comfortable.  Almost comfortable enough to make you fall asleep, she thought.  She stashed it in the back for her to take home later, along with a bag of gummy worms and a jar of peaches.  

There weren't many other workers at the shop, and they had shifts so it was just her in the store.  People came in and browsed, some went in and out quickly, know exactly what they wanted and where they would find it, in a similar fashion that Cynthia was used to.  She smiled at the customers but tried her best to avoid small talk.  She didn't know most of the people that came in anyway.  She recognized a few faces here and there of course, but not anyone she had personally talked too.

Cynthia got a ten minute lunch break.  She walked to the grocery section and grabbed a can of soda and an apple.  She couldn't taste the sweet citrus from the soda, but she liked the feeling of the bubbly liquid, and it was the only thing around here, it seemed, that didn't feel the same way going down as room temperature water.  She flipped through a magazine that was lying around called Tiger Beat, whatever that meant.  It was filled with pictures of strangely dressed people, most with barely any clothes on at all, that she had never heard of, but people seemed to praise.  So many faces were plastered on the cover she had trouble keeping track who was who.