When people imagine their funerals, they imagine it going a bit like this:

The mortician's car pulls up, and several family friends in gorgeous black suits carry your coffin to the grave site.

Your entourage of crying friends, family, and teachers follow closely.

You are inside the coffin, dressed in your Sunday best. Your sleeves are pulled all the way down, hiding your scars. The bruises have been powdered into submission. You look surreal; like a life-size doll version. It's not you, but it's similar.

There is the family priest, reading your favorite hymns and saying good things about you.

Everyone cries and laughs and remembers.

The guests bring flowers up and make speeches about you and how much they'll miss you.

Then they put your coffin into the ground. The people start to leave, having said their final goodbye.

There will be grief counseling for a few months after your death, and people will go on about how it was 'So tragic' and that you were 'So young and full of life'.

Your friends will always remember you fondly, and your teachers and classmates will look through old yearbooks one day and go 'Oh yeah, I remember him. He was a good person.'

Your parents and little brother will remember you, but they will eventually get over it. Until they see something or someone that reminds them of you, then they'll cry.

But they won't forget.

At least, that's how you think it would go. For me, it went a bit differently.

I was in a coffin alright, but I was carried to my grave by some rough men in baggy overalls.

My parents went out that day, and I am pretty sure that they were shopping for more sex toys.

There was an unfamiliar priest reading a few things quickly, and he was sweaty. And rude. When it was time for him to go, he just told the workers to 'throw that shit in there, let's go get shit-faced drunk'.

Only two people showed up. Only one was up close.

Feliciano, my younger brother, was sobbing his eyes out. He was on his knees in front of my coffin, babbling in Italian.

And Antonio was crying silently, a few grave rows away, leaning on a weeping willow tree.

After they left, it was just the workers and my coffin.

After the funeral, everyone was laughing about 'that rude Italian bitch' and how 'she was so fucking annoying I wished I'd been the one who poisoned her'.

There was no grief counseling.

No tears, other than the ones at the funeral and from my frattello and Toni.

No flowers.

No speeches.

Just laughing and gossiping and hating and forgetting and going about their normal lives.

And how do I know this?

Because I was fucking there.

/Herro :3 I've started a bunch of stuff lately. Anyways, how was it?