Anything that is not mine isn't mine. You probably know what that would be
(a.k.a. everything except the narrator). That's it!
Why does it always rain at funerals? Grey, wet rain soaks everything. Black gowns just look blacker when wet and they feel ten pounds heavier. My father's mahogany coffin shines from water and tears. So many tears and none of them mine. How can I cry for a man I barely knew? He looks the same dead as alive, the only picture I have of him is during my parent's wedding. A wedding and a funeral, how apropos. His death was a sad event; he was much loved by his people. Love is too strong a word for a man who sent you away when you were four.
Finally, when the last person steps away from the coffin to the reception, I can face his grave. The blood red rose I hold is dropped on the fresh earth.
"I cannot say anything about you," I whisper, the words like sandpaper. My own raspy voice is the opposite of the voice I have been training myself to speak. Long hours I spent perfecting it until it sounded thick like honey and as trained as those groomed toy poodles.
The reception hall teams with people, all wet and robed in black. A truly depressing sight. Tiny finger cakes and expensive wines are served to those who can still have an appetite after seeing my pale, still father. I have no appetite after seeing my father's papery skin and fixed expression. It scares me. I cough and ready myself before I stand in front of the crowd. Because of my father's death, I have his lands and his title and must take my place as a French noble.
"My father was a much loved man, I am told," my voice rings clear and true and many turn to me. "I never knew him; I cannot say anything about him. All I know is that he loved my mother, and her death ate at him until he sent me to school because he couldn't face me. His love killed him." The rain and the wet black cloth bothered me too much. Originally, I was going to stand here and say something sugary and sticky like an over sweetened sticky bun. I know that sweet and sultry would not describe anything. And my father died because he loved too much. I will never love so much I would die if the other died. "I swear to take my father's title and land." Before I step down, I meet a blonde's eyes.
As I walk into the crowds, the blonde meets me and grins. "You must visit me soon. Christmases are too short to uphold a friendship," she says. Instantly, I curtsy to the older girl.
"Yes, my princess," I say though my voice mocks. She is my better, and I remind her constantly, even though she always wrinkles her nose when I do. Excusing myself from her presence, I run into the rain. My already soaked dress cannot get wetter, what will more rain do? I hate the depression of the damp crowd. No one thinks I can be as just and fair as my father, and I hate it. I know that the loyal and trusted counselors of my father's do not think much of his overly sheltered daughter and they will try to usurp my power.
Grey is lighter than black. The rain can only be so sad, and it can't whisper in my ears. The rain does not spread rumors about my unworthiness. My pretty dress turns brown from the mud I spin circles in. Laughter rings through the mist, my laughter. Music touches my lips and I let the song I had been keeping silent into the air. My singing teacher always said my voice was too deep.
Each note seems to be interrupted by a hacking cough. I cough until I have nothing to cough, and I still cannot sing. My voice all but disappeared.
"Mademoiselle, you will catch cold if continue to stay in this rain," someone tells me. Through my long, wet, violet hair I see a red haired man. But as soon as I see him, my vision fogs and the coughs start again.
Why does it always rain at funerals? Grey, wet rain soaks everything. Black gowns just look blacker when wet and they feel ten pounds heavier. My father's mahogany coffin shines from water and tears. So many tears and none of them mine. How can I cry for a man I barely knew? He looks the same dead as alive, the only picture I have of him is during my parent's wedding. A wedding and a funeral, how apropos. His death was a sad event; he was much loved by his people. Love is too strong a word for a man who sent you away when you were four.
Finally, when the last person steps away from the coffin to the reception, I can face his grave. The blood red rose I hold is dropped on the fresh earth.
"I cannot say anything about you," I whisper, the words like sandpaper. My own raspy voice is the opposite of the voice I have been training myself to speak. Long hours I spent perfecting it until it sounded thick like honey and as trained as those groomed toy poodles.
The reception hall teams with people, all wet and robed in black. A truly depressing sight. Tiny finger cakes and expensive wines are served to those who can still have an appetite after seeing my pale, still father. I have no appetite after seeing my father's papery skin and fixed expression. It scares me. I cough and ready myself before I stand in front of the crowd. Because of my father's death, I have his lands and his title and must take my place as a French noble.
"My father was a much loved man, I am told," my voice rings clear and true and many turn to me. "I never knew him; I cannot say anything about him. All I know is that he loved my mother, and her death ate at him until he sent me to school because he couldn't face me. His love killed him." The rain and the wet black cloth bothered me too much. Originally, I was going to stand here and say something sugary and sticky like an over sweetened sticky bun. I know that sweet and sultry would not describe anything. And my father died because he loved too much. I will never love so much I would die if the other died. "I swear to take my father's title and land." Before I step down, I meet a blonde's eyes.
As I walk into the crowds, the blonde meets me and grins. "You must visit me soon. Christmases are too short to uphold a friendship," she says. Instantly, I curtsy to the older girl.
"Yes, my princess," I say though my voice mocks. She is my better, and I remind her constantly, even though she always wrinkles her nose when I do. Excusing myself from her presence, I run into the rain. My already soaked dress cannot get wetter, what will more rain do? I hate the depression of the damp crowd. No one thinks I can be as just and fair as my father, and I hate it. I know that the loyal and trusted counselors of my father's do not think much of his overly sheltered daughter and they will try to usurp my power.
Grey is lighter than black. The rain can only be so sad, and it can't whisper in my ears. The rain does not spread rumors about my unworthiness. My pretty dress turns brown from the mud I spin circles in. Laughter rings through the mist, my laughter. Music touches my lips and I let the song I had been keeping silent into the air. My singing teacher always said my voice was too deep.
Each note seems to be interrupted by a hacking cough. I cough until I have nothing to cough, and I still cannot sing. My voice all but disappeared.
"Mademoiselle, you will catch cold if continue to stay in this rain," someone tells me. Through my long, wet, violet hair I see a red haired man. But as soon as I see him, my vision fogs and the coughs start again.