In muddy grass we stand side by side,
with our knuckles interlocked.
Black dresses flood the cemetery
in this cliché tragedy.
Just do as you're instructed.
The weather was far from appropriate.
It was a bright, clear morning. The clouds, usually unforgiving, had passed over the night before, leaving the ground surprisingly dry. Birds chirped loudly, without boundary or worry, oblivious to our silent torment, and the wind whispered its secrets to the trees. Dressed entirely in black, as tradition dictates, we made our way into the building. His wife had chosen this place. It resembled a church, with towering pillars and a high tower, and in a way, it was ironic. Here we were, hundreds of witches and wizards, pouring into a building many thought us cursed from.
The ceremony was... quiet. Those that cried were few and far between and they did so silently, dabbing at their faces with torn tissues. I don't think it had quite sunk in—the fact that he was dead, that he was never coming back. He was always a bit of a fairy tale, a hero that had slain the dragon and would live forever in the hearts of his people, and the truth was frightening because the truth was, was that he was just a man, dead and soon to be buried as we all would be.
I was surprised to find that he had an open casket and we stared down into it with frightened eyes, into the face of our hero, our savior, a face we all knew intimately—a face that had been plastered on every newspaper for the past week. He had done what many before him were unable to. He had put years of fighting to an end with such ease it made us look like simpletons. He had sacrificed so much for us. His very life, it seemed, as he looked back up at us through closed eyelids, pale and expressionless, forced into a suit and placed in a box that would eventually find a home in the ground. He was no longer immortal and people had started to sob.
With each breath, with each glance, we tasted our own humanity.
The drive to the cemetery was unbearably long and since we had left the church, the crowd had grown. We moved speechless up the path, as if we were no longer a collection of people—persons pushed together, loved ones and strangers alike—but a single, living thing, operating on sheer will power. We gathered around his casket again and, once more, the minister talked—apologizing again and again for being unable to justly put his personality into words.
No one knew why you were there.
Curious glances were passed from person to person.
We were all blatant enough to stare, but too afraid to speak up and ask. As time passed, the situation had become increasingly delicate. One wrong word would shatter it beyond repair and no one wanted to go down for that. No one wanted to be blamed for tarnishing his memory. So instead, we continued to stare, our expressions betraying our curiosity. You paid us no mind. You only had eyes for him, or so it seemed, as they were focused on the casket, cold and piercing.
We all stepped forward.
Some with white roses, some with handfuls of dirt, we passed the casket a final time, tossing our goodbyes onto the unnatural white, staining it with our humanity. You joined the line, surprising us all when you withdrew a single rose from your jacket. It was bright red, the color of passion and anger and love—we stilled, watching you in quiet wonder. Leaning forward, you set it on top of the casket with such care—its color put our roses to shame—and stepped back, as if to admire your work. Time stopped. Your expression shifted, however subtly, and something indescribable creased your brow. Time jolted forward as a camera flashed and you were expressionless again, your eyes flicking up to glare at the photographer, cold and unforgiving. You moved forward and the line followed.
You broke from the crowd, head held high, and we parted willingly. You passed his family in silence, unable to spare even a glance or a kind word. Face stained with tears, his widow shook with a cold fury many recognized but were unable to explain. His friends, too, glared, as unable to explain your presence as we were, and you started down the beaten path, pass the other headstones and out of the cemetery. Not once did you look back and unknown, we envied you for that, as oblivious as the birds to your silent torment.
Goodbyes are said and roses thrown,
and the crowd starts to weep.
But the irony of the story is when I fell to my knees
and began clawing at the dirt in front of the tombstone
of my bashful childhood—
with you by my side, you're screaming at the
top of your lungs, "Let it go."
And I'm screaming at the top of my lungs,
"The ceremony was not proper! There was not enough people!
And who picked the music?
Those melodies almost made me physically sick."
My secret is fatally gorgeous.
I'd die for you.
Lyrics belong to The Spill Canvas' Black Dresses and the story itself was based on ideas and characters born from J.K. Rowling's brilliant mind. No copyright infringement was intended.
Please R&R.