Jeremiah Kuttler looked out at the row of caskets before him, then up at the bright shining sun. He felt it was wrong. All wrong. Sunny days were meant for days of celebration and joy, days filled with happiness and enjoyment. Not funerals. Jeremiah looked back at the caskets. He never wished for rain more in his life. Days like this demanded that the very heavens should weep; demanded that all the angels in heaven should stop and take notice. It demanded that the rest of the city, if not the world, should be just as miserable; should suffer just as much, as he was. But, much to his dismay, the weather was proof that no matter what happened to him, the rest of the world just kept moving right along, completely oblivious to his pain and heartache.
He sat there in his black suit; the buttons were open, letting his dark blue tie hang in front of his white shirt. Every now and again, the breeze would catch it and toss it about playfully. The way she would sometimes…
Jeremiah wiped his eyes. Normally pale green, they were now red and puffy, and began to ache. He looked down at the row of people seated beside him. The woman next to him had been crying non-stop since she arrived. She was wearing a long black dress, black nylon and heels, and a black hat with a black lace vale that covered the upper portion of her face. Even still, he could see that her mascara was little more that black trails; more evidence of her heartache.
Jeremiah knew this woman, and had spoken to her a few times, but her name was lost to him: Mary or Maria; something that started with an "M". His brow creased with concentration as he struggled to remember. It was important that he remember, or at least it should be. Circumstances like these, he felt, it needed to be important.
A cough drew his attention from Mary (Maria?) to the man sitting on the other side of her. His name was Thomas. Thomas Herron. Jeremiah knew him fairly well, having been invited to more than a few male bonding sessions involving football and basketball games, cases of beer, and some pretty good barbecue ribs.
Thomas wore a black suit that was similar in style to Jeremiah's, but tailored better. Thomas also wore the same red, blood shot eyes. His cheeks were stained with salty tracks; too much beer, not enough water.
Next to him was his wife. Her name was Nancy. She was wearing a black dress and heels. The length was a little too short for Jeremiah's taste, but he immediately remembered the many times he had heard "Tom" comment about how great his wife's "stems" were. How "everything she wears shows off her legs…" And while he didn't disagree with his neighbor and friend, he just thought that something a little longer would have been more appropriate.
Next to Nancy was a small Latin woman Jeremiah had seen hundreds of time, spoke to dozens, but never learned her name. Also dressed in black, she was clutching a small child in her arms, crying and rocking back and forth. Her lips were moving, but he couldn't make out what she was saying.
That made him look at the man whose voice he could hear. The priest was speaking, quoting some biblical verse; something about returning to the arms of the father or some such. He wasn't listening. For the hundredth or so time that morning, his eyes fell on one particular casket, the one directly before him. He stared at it as hard as he could and tried to feel something, anything. Yet there was only emptiness. Despair.
Maria (Mary?) stood, startling him slightly. She was tall, with bright red hair, long and curly. She looked like her father more than her mother. It was the eyes. Like bright shining emeralds. They were bloodshot red now, puffy and swollen, tears falling even now as she approached the casket before her and placed the crimson rose on top of it. She placed her hand on the smooth mahogany surface and shuddered. She then turned to the casket next to it, and placed a second rose atop that one. She began to sob ad her knees buckled slightly. A man Jeremiah didn't recognize appeared beside her and held her close, supporting most of her weight. Jeremiah didn't recognize him; a husband or lover perhaps. He began to lead her away, and only then did Jeremiah realize the precession was at an end.
He looked down at the two crimson roses he held in his lap. The emptiness returned with earnest. His stomach went cold and a chill went down his spine and made him shutter as he inhaled. His eyes burned, but not with tears. How many days had it been since he last slept? Three? Four? He had lost track. He pushed himself to his feet and approached the casket. The flowers in his hands seemed suddenly heavy. He stood over it looking at his own reflection in the polished surface. His breath was shallow now. His heart seemed week and unsteady.
But no tears would come. No, he had spent the last five days crying. He had no tears left. He drew in a shuddering breath. "Lisa…" he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I wish I was there. I could have saved you… you and… and… the baby…" He felt his eyes begin to burn. "God…" he whispered, as the first tears began to trail down his cheeks. "I miss you so much… I…"
There was a gasp from behind him. Then another. And another. Murmurs and whispers followed. Jeremiah turned towards the small crowd of attendees. They all seemed to be looking at something. Something up, up in the sky.
Superman floated down like a blue and red clad angel, regal and awe-inspiring, his red cape flowing gently in the breeze. But unlike an angle, his body held not glory or righteousness, but defeat. His head hung, his eyes cast downward.
His feet touched the ground like a fallen leaf, and he walked sullenly towards the woman with the bright red hair.
"Mrs. McKinney…" he said softly, his voice carrying over the hushed and awestruck crowd. "I… I tried to save them… The basement… I couldn't…" he inhaled and shuddered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The woman moved away from the man holding her, her strength returning to her, her tears slowing slightly, and took a few steps closer to Superman. He could not meet her eyes. She slowly lifted her hand to his face, a face that many women considered handsome and desirable, and touched his cheek with her palm. Slowly, she lifted his face until his eyes, as blue as the summer sky, met her own emerald orbs.
"You did all you could, Superman. Half the people here owe you there lives. My parents did as well. Every time you saved the city, you saved them as well. I don't blame you. You have nothing to apologize for. My parents lived good lives. They died trying to save the people close to them. It's the best any of us can hope for."
"I just…" Superman began… words failing him. "I just wish I could have done more."
"When God calls us home, no one can ignore him. And no one can stop his will from being done. Not even you."
Superman looked at the woman in front of him. Her emerald eyes were tinted red and swollen from crying; eyes that held pain, but peace; sorrow, but acceptance, and above all else, compassion.
Superman nodded slightly. The woman smiled weakly and turned away.
Jeremiah was shaking so violently, if anyone was looking at him, they would have thought he was having a seizure. He felt a stabbing pain in his hand that had been there for the last few moments, but only now he acknowledged. He looked down and realized he had crushed the roses he held; the thorns had pierced his palm. Blood dripped down his hand and onto casket beside him.
He heard foot steps and looked up. Superman was walking towards him. His blue eyes a mixture of determination and sorrow.
Jeremiah looked at the man approaching him. The man so many worshipped as a hero and savior. A man capable of crushing diamonds between his fingertips. A man that could melt steel with but a look; who's mighty breath could turn back a tornado and defeat Mother Nature herself.
The emptiness inside him began to fade.
"Mr. Kuttler…" Superman began.
The punch caught Superman just below the chin. Jeremiah was almost instantly aware of why the media had dubbed him the "Man of Steel"; and grateful Superman had the good graces to turn his head with the blow. As it was, Jeremiah was certain he had at least fractured something.
The crowd gasped collectively; shocked and frightened, and all holding their collective breath, not sure what to expect.
The rage was instantaneous and all consuming. Tears filled Jeremiahs eyes and burn as the rolled down his face.
"Mr. Kuttler…" Superman whispered, turning slowly back to him.
"Don't!" Jeremiah shouted. "Don't you dare come to me with your apologies! You'll find no forgiveness here, Superman! These other sheep might worship you like some golden God, some holy savior, but I don't! And my family sure as hell doesn't! Where was all that power when they were dying!? Where were all those marvelous abilities when they needed you!? You let them die, Superman! Their blood is on your hands! You may as well have killed them yourself! So don't you dare come groveling to me, begging for forgiveness. Trying to make yourself feel better about failing them. Failing all of them!" Jeremiah gestured towards the row of caskets, his burning eyes falling on the one that held his wife and unborn child. He turned back towards Superman, the rage in his heart strong and burning. And to his surprise and frustration, he saw tears falling from Superman's crystal blue eyes.
He took a step closer to him. "The Man of Steel". Jeremiah almost laughed at the notion. "Tell me this, Superman: do your tears have the power to bring back the dead?" Superman lifted his head and looked past the man standing before him to the three caskets beyond.
"No." he whispered.
"Then what use are they to me?!" Jeremiah spat in his face and stormed past him.
He caught glimpses of the attendees. Their looks were a mixture of shock, disgust, remorse, and worse. He didn't care. He hated them. He hated all of them. Especially him. Especially Superman.
He marched angrily towards the town car he arrived in. There was someone leaning against it. Someone tall and thin. With short brown hair and a pair of round glasses over his eyes.
Jeremiah didn't speak as the man held the door open for him. He climbed inside and the door closed behind him. A few moments later, the driver-side door opened and the tall lean man climbed in and settled in behind the wheel. He started the engine and drove slowly down the cobblestone road which lead towards the cemetery's exit. In the back seat, Jeremiah was weeping. His head was in his hands and his shoulders shook violently as he sobbed. Pain and sorrow, rage and frustration, despair and emptiness… he let it all out. And he took it all in. He cried as his world crumbled. He cried as his heart shattered. He cried as his soul sank into darkness. He cried as the car turned onto Main Street. He cried as he glanced out the window in time to see a blue and red silhouette rise into the air and fly off into the distance.