The candles are so very dark, and so very real.
They are tealights surrounded by a vast glass wall that glimmers vaguely, the vivacious flame dampened by the cheap adhesive labels on the sides done in white-chalkboard paper.
"In loving memory," they read.
The pictures underneath stare solemnly, pale blurbs melding and separating with the swaying crowd.
Her hair is light and brown and wispy and on her cheeks amass freckles, and she is wide-eyed-camera-caught in the moment.
Don't look at her mouth. Mouths don't matter, you know. Mouths tell lies with their Mona Lisa smiles.
A robust woman with watery eyes begins to hum.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…
Damn that song!
It's the end.
What you came for.
The point when the ridiculous notion of adolescent vigilantes armed in spandex comes fullforce back.
Because you hate what you are, what you stand for, what you couldn't do that this, this human could do with a few simple notes and a fleeting smile.
The candle in your hands burns at your palms.
The lights blur, the masses sing at the stars hopelessly.
The rocks beneath your feet vibrate in anticipation.
Your arms glow and become the candle, the flame. The light.
A scream pierces the heavy thickness, the solitude and the solemnity of this whole arrangement.
A funeral! Ha! For just one person? Really?
The ground swallows the lights.
Soft treads behind you, twitches in the earth, your sustenance.
Temples tightened, ears straining for that elusive last step, you turn.
His smile stretches beyond the mask.
Good work, Terra.