Sunday Morning
The Funeral

Author's Note: I wrote this a few months ago. I wasn't sure if I wanted to put it up or not. I wasn't sure how people would respond to it or if they would even like it. I hope it's a success and that you all like it. Also, if you don't know this already, I'm a huge review addict/whore. Reviews would be appreciated. Also, I'm no against God or Christianity. I'm a Christian so, please, don't anyone take offence to Brian's thoughts and feelings.

But I cannot forget
Refuse to regret
So glad I met you
Take my breath away
Make everyday
Worth all of the pain that I have
Gone through
Maroon 5 – The Sun

Sunday morning.

Aren't Sunday mornings supposed to be holy or whatever the fuck? Isn't this the day that God rested? Isn't this the day that people all go to church for a nice sermon telling people how wrong and how horrible they are? Where the pastor tells them all that they're worthless pieces of shit who don't deserve God's love but since God is so fucking loving you can get to Heaven if you believe that he died on the cross for you? Bull. Shit. God doesn't give a flying fuck about you burning in fucking hell for fucking eternity. He also rested on Sunday, the seventh day, because he didn't give a fuck what happened. That's my theory. 'Cause God was definitely resting today. He fucking let them fucking die.

Today I'm at church. Sure, it's not the first time. My mother made me go all the time when I was younger. I hadn't really minded church except for the fact that whenever the preacher decided to tell us that "homosexuality is wrong" it pissed me off and that it got boring after sitting in the hard uncomfortable wooden pew for an hour. I always started to doze off which would earn me a light smack on the leg from my mother. My dad on the other hand laughed at this, he didn't give a fuck if I fell asleep in church 'because he did the exact same thing. Except he didn't get hit for it. Mr. Kinney didn't really give a fuck about anything. Just like me, his son, Brian fucking Kinney. The hottest thing to walk the earth.

No, I'm not conceited. It's just the simple truth.

But I'm not at church to listen to the boring as hell sermon that's going on. No, I'm in church to talk to my mom. She's here every Sunday. I walk into the large sanctuary interrupting the sermon. The preacher doesn't stop talking, no; he keeps right on going even though people are now distracted by me. I don't blame them and no, it's not because I'm fucking gorgeous. No, it's because my face is covered with blood and hot salty tears, my clothes are wrinkled beyond being able to be fixed, they too are covered with blood, and I'm shaking like leaf. Then my mother, Joan Kinney, spots me, gasps, and leaves her pew. She has never in her God – given life gotten out of her seat in the middle of a sermon before.

"Brian?"

She hurries towards me. She left her Bible in the pew forgotten. She's never forgotten her Bible anywhere either. Her eyes are wide and round with confusion. Her mouth is open in a tiny O of shock at my appearance. Never in her life has she seen me so unclean. Good thing she doesn't know I'm gay or she'd see me unclean everyday even when I'm freshly cleansed. Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder and then I'm in her arms crying on her shoulder. My shoulders heaving up and down, loud choked sobs coming out of my mouth. I haven't cried in my mother's arms since I was probably two or three. And that was only because my father's an alcoholic and he got off on beating me for no reason when his system was drowned in alcohol. By now the preacher had stopped preaching and was leaving his spot and coming towards us.

"Brian, what's wrong?"

How can she expect me to talk? I can't even breathe! Fuckfuckfuck. Joan pushes me away from her, her hands still rest on my shoulders though, and she stares at me worriedly. By now the preacher, he's been the preacher since I was a little boy and he's looks deathly old, is standing next to my mother, Bible tucked under his arm, and a worried expression on his face. I squeeze my eyes shut and narrow my head towards the ground. I'm Brian fucking Kinney. I don't cry. I don't. Fucking. Cry. But I'm crying. My tears are escaping the crevices of my eyelids and there's nothing I can do about it. The palms of my hands press against my eyes trying to force the tears to stay inside where they belong.

It doesn't work, needless to say.

"…Brian?"

My vision is blurred from the liquid in my eyes but I look at her anyway, letting the tears slide down my face like tiny, salty streams. I can't control them anyhow. "They're dead." She looks shocked at my words. So does the pastor. So do the few bystanders that are standing in their pews nearby trying to look like they aren't listening like the good little Christians that they are. Joan places a hand on my cheek, thumb wiping away a few of my tears but more just coming to replace them as quickly as she wiped them away. "Brian, who's dead?" I looked back towards the floor, head bowing down again; my whole body is shaking uncontrollably.

"T-this morning - - Six O clock…they were i-in their c-car…"

Joan placed a firm but gentle grip on my chin and tilted my face back upwards so she could look my directly in my teary eyes. "Who's 'they'?" I'm not ignoring her. I just choose not to answer her because if I say it out loud then I'll know for sure that what happened is true and I'm not ready to face the life altering realization yet. "Some guy…r-rammed into them from the s-side…t-then another c-car rammed into t-them from the other f-front…t-they drove o-off but…but…but…" Joan ran a hand through my hair. The gesture was supposed to be soothing but it wasn't. Nothing could be soothing right now. "But what, Brian?"

"But…t-there w-was a…b-bystander…s-some produce marker s-seller who was w-working early…didn't g-get the license plate n-numbers. They're dead."

Joan placed both hands firmly on my shoulders and my eyes meet hers. They're still blurred with my tears but I can still make her and the pastor out. "Brian, tell me who's dead." I squeeze my eyes shut, pain shaking through my body, and more tears reproducing in my tear glands. The pastor lays a comforting hand on my shoulder or what's supposed to be comforting but I shake it off. I don't like it when people touch me. Well, pastors anyway. I don't like it when pastors touch me. My glazed eyes meet my mother's again and I sniffle. Like a little faggot, I sniffle! I quickly forget about it.

"J-Jenny Rebecca. M-Mel and L-L-Linds."

Linds was the hardest. I loved her like the best – friend she was. If I had been straight I would've asked her to marry me and we could've had Gus the "normal" way instead of me just giving her a cup of my semen and letting her lesbian lover artificially inseminating her. Joan gasped as did the pastor. So did the bystanders that were close enough to hear. "Was Gus in the car?" He was. Gus had been in the car but he had survived. He was in the hospital now from what Michael told me with tears on the other line of the phone. I didn't go though, not yet, I had to come here. I had to get my mother to come with me. I don't know why I did. Probably because she loved Lindsay and Gus just as much as I did.

She hadn't been big on them being lesbians but she hadn't been a bitch about it.

She had accepted it and loved Gus just as much as me.

"Yes. He's….hospital."

Joan quickly turned to the pastor. She tells him that we have to go to the hospital and he quickly agrees and tells her that he'll pray for her and her family. Fuck that. Praying isn't going to bring Mel, Linds and JR back. I can't help but think of Michael at the moment. JR was his daughter, his pride and joy, and she had died when my son, my beautiful son, had stayed alive and alright. I don't think it's fair. I think it's unfair of God to take away Michael's daughter. Mikey's on of the most caring, kindest, funniest, men I know and he doesn't deserve this shit. Thanks you very much, God. And you expect me to worship you and praise your name? Fuck that bull shit.

"Come on, Brian."

I leave my jeep in the church parking lot and get into my mother's old beat up car that she's had for a million years. In five seconds flat were heading down the street, unspeaking. I stare at myself in the mirror and slowly calm myself down. I don't want to look like this in front of my son or Michael and whoever else might be there. I never look this vulnerable in front of my friends or anyone else and they could, if they needed to, use it against me some day. Me being vulnerable is a bad thing. By the time we reach the hospital my face is tearstain free, though my eyes are red and puffy. And I'm still covered in blood.

When I arrived at the scene of the accident Mel and Linds were in the front seat. I hadn't known the three of them were dead yet and I went straight to Linds. I opened the passenger door and pulled her out and placed her gently on the ground. "Linds! Come on, Linds! Wake up!" Needless to say, she hadn't. I was on my knees kneeling over her dead body on the cement. Blood was pouring out of her head, stomach, legs and arms. Mel was in worst condition with half the steering wheel in her stomach and the car door pushed into her side. I couldn't even get that door open it was so damaged. Then when I had walked to the backseat of the car there had been Gus screaming and Jenny Rebecca.

She didn't even look dead but she was. I could tell.

Before I left to drive to the church the produce seller told me that she had called the police and that the ambush had happened about ten minutes ago. I had asked her how the fuck she had gotten my number and she had simply told me when she ran over to the car after the other two drivers drove off she had reached through Mel's broken window, grabbed her cell phone, and picked the first number that she had seen and that had been mine. Fucking mine. Then she had called the police. Now, here I was walking into the hospital to comfort my son. Joan was silent as she led me through the long, white, sterile halls. Then, suddenly, there was Michael sitting in one of the green plastic chairs crying his eyes out.

There was also a stunning blonde standing across from him and leaning against the wall. I didn't recognize him so I figured he was here for something else. I'm soon standing in front of Michael, gathering him in my arms and letting him cry on my shoulder. I don't tell him that it's ok or that it'll be alright 'cause I'm not fucking stupid and I know it won't be alright. Things won't be alright for a long while and I don't see how they can ever be alright after this. Over Michael's shoulder I meet the startling blue eyes of the blonde leaning against the wall. His eyes are red, watery, and stains from tears streak his pale cheeks. Pain is clearly written across his orbs of blue peering out from the red.

I stare at him for a few more moments, his eyes staring directly at mine, before letting mine shut and focusing only on Michael and his sobbing. Joan sits down in a chair and I slowly sit down pulling Michael down with me. He pulls away from me now and rest his face in the palm of his hands. My hand wraps around the back of his neck and my other hand rubs my tired eyes. This has to be the fucking worst morning of my fucking life. Even worst then the mornings my dad was already drunk and he took pride and enthusiasm in taking his leather belt and making huge welts all over my body. This was so much worst then that. I'd rather get beat right now. Suddenly, my eyes watch closely, a police officer is walking down the hall and the blonde stands fully straight as if he knows the officer is coming to speak to him.

And he is. And I watch. I have a right.

If it has to do with Mel, Linds, and JR.

"Are you Mr. Taylor?"

"…Justin Taylor."

The officer wrote something down on his yellow pad of paper much like the one that Debbie uses at the diner she owns and works at. The Liberty Diner. "I'm Carl Horvath." He holds out a hand but the blonde man, or maybe he's a boy, I can't tell, doesn't take it. He just stands there looking troubled and uncomfortable in the white environment. Carl lets his hand fall back to his side and he continues on.

"You say you know the men who rammed into Miss Peterson and Miss Marcus' car?"

My head lifts fully up, my ears are on alert. How would he know? What does he have to do with my friends? He meets my eyes for a moment as if expecting this kind of reaction. I look over at Michael who hasn't seemed to hear a word and has his hands over his face still. Biting my bottom lip I look back towards Justin Taylor, whoever the fuck he is, and the police officer and listen. I deserve to know. I loved all of them, even Mel whom I didn't get along with. I loved her too dammit.

"Y-yes."

"Names please?"

The blonde let out a shaky breath.

"You won't tell them I told you?"

Carl shook his head.

"Everything you say is completely confidential."

This Justin nodded and bowed his head and stared down at the floor, teeth tugging at his bottom lip, and hands shoving deep into the pockets of his jeans. He slowly looks up again to meet Carl's eyes.

"It's my fault."

What the fuck! His fault? I almost stand up and march over there and beat the shit out of his bubble butt. Carl looks surprised and writes something in his notepad again. "What do you mean by that, son?" Justin's face contorted into a look of pain and regret. Sorrow, pain, and regret. Tears started to fall down his face and I can't imagine this man/boy purposely getting a friend to help him bash Mel and Linds' car in. Justin ran a hand through his ear length, shaggy blonde strands and draws in a shaky breath.

"I'm Jenny Rebecca's and Gus's babysitter when Mel and Linds need me. I was only returning a favor for Lindsay because she helped me pay my way into art school and she needed a baby sitter. Vua la. So, anyway, there's this guy…his name's Chris Hobbs…he's kinda against…he hates me and love to mess around with me 'cause I'm gay so when he found out I was going to stop working for him,"

Carl broke in, furiously writing in his pad.

"Where does he work?"

"He works at that construction down the street from where the…accident happened."

"Alright, go on."

He drew in another deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a few moments.

"He was pissed when I told him I quit so I can attend school and that I got another job anyway. He asked what and I told him since I didn't want him to think I was lying…and he went irate telling me that he was going to kick my gay little ass and beat the shit out of me 'cause I'm a faggot…"

"Mr. Hobbs has never threatened you before?"

Justin shook his head.

"No…but I think he was mad because…"

Carl looked at him expectantly.

"'cause the day before I gave him a hand job."

His cheeks were red but Carl said nothing. My eyes however widened and my eyebrows lifted up. Interesting. A straight guy gets a hand job from a gay man and then gets all pissy on him. Justin continued on. "I guess he was mad about that…especially since he didn't seem to mind it…" Carl wasn't writing anything now so Brian guessed that this piece of information wasn't important to the case. Justin shook his head. He suddenly looked very tired, his face ashen.

"Anyway, he said he was going to get back at me. I didn't even understand what he was talking about. He's completely psycho and fucked up in the head. So I just leave and tell him to fuck off. So, I guess he thought I would be in the car with them this morning and decided to go for it and fulfill his promise."

Carl stopped writing.

"How do you know it was him though?"

"Isn't it fucking obvious?"

His voice had risen a few octaves.

"He threatened me and the next morning my dearest friends, who I work for now, had their car rammed in on purpose? Plus, I know what kind of car he drives and the produce lady said that one of the vehicles was an Excursion. He fucking owns an Excursion! He fucking killed them because of me! It's my fucking fault!"

His voice was ringing down the halls. Nurses came out to see what the commotion was. Michael was looking on with a look of shock and anger. My mother was just watching with a startled expression. Justin was in tears, his shoulders heaving up and down like mine had been earlier in the church. I just watched in awe. He was beautiful even when he had tears streaming down his face and he looked like a complete shitty mess. I slowly stood up and walked towards the two of them causing both of them to look in my direction. I ignored Carl and kept my eyes locked on Justin Taylor. I wish I could've been blessed with a baby-sitter this hot when I had been younger.

I'd ask for a spanking all the time.

Smiling apologetically at him I gathered him in my arms and pulled him against my chest. I buried my face in his soft hair, wrapped my arms around his small lithe frame, and placed my hand around his neck to hold him in place like he would fall through my arms or something. I was crying all over again. I couldn't hold it in. I was told by Michael at one point that it's ok to cry. I don't remember what we had been talking about, probably about my father, and he had said crying doesn't make you weak. Crying is human nature. Crying is something normal. Crying is ok no matter what my abusive father says. So I cry. I cry with Justin Taylor in my arms not blaming him at all for the deaths that had happened.

But I was going to kill fucking Chris Hobbs.

Pretty angsty, huh? I really hope you like my story. I promise you that it won't be this angsty the entire story. That would just be sad story and no one wants to read something that's sad the entire time through. Sorry for any grammatical errors. I don't have a BETA and I don't believe in Beta's because I like to do my own work and learn from mistakes. Plus, I don't want a BETA at the moment because I want to get my chapters up ASAP. Thanks for reading.