My mother always enjoys telling the story of how I was born. Not my conception, mind you, but the literal ejection from the womb. After the gory details of a hard labor, with no drugs to kill the pain of my grand entrance, she begins to describe the oddity that is me. I was a normal baby of average weight, width, and feature. Nothing was out of place, which was a bit disappointing to my mother. She prided herself on her unique eggs, and how individual each one was. I guess one out of the thousands had to be lacking in the distinct department.
I was completely silent, my eyes shut by placenta juice, if that even is a thing. As they wiped the blockage from my eyes, they snapped open, rather than blinking slowly to take in the sudden light. I'm pretty sure the natural reaction for a baby is "Holy shit, this isn't my uterus cave" and then a burst of tears as sharp air invades its infantile pores. I, however, seemed to stare at the world for a moment, then opened my lungs like two organ flowers and began to laugh. And not even that little bubbling, burbling, baby laugh. It was a high-pitched keening, almost bordering on a scream. My mother was in shock for a moment, until the nurses began to laugh. They all found it to be quite humorous.
17 years later, I was making that sound again now at my brother's funeral. Nobody was laughing this time. Only me, and just barely. I don't know what came over me, honestly. I was silent and sad, as all who lose a loved one are. My head was bowed, so as to avoid all the condolences from well wishers who obviously just wanted to say their bit and go live their lives in a way my brother no longer could.
I had been the third to bend over the smooth, open coffin after my mother (wailing in dramatic fashion), and my father (stoic and silent in the way only fathers can be). I went up, feeling curious glances upon me. They all knew we had been close. We were only a year apart, and even though he had been at school most of the time, we always came back with a bond stronger than any during the summer. When I saw him, everything seemed almost surreal. He lay in suit and tie, hands at his sides. His chocolate hair had been combed back- No that is wrong. His hair is always messy. The livid bruises on his face and body were barely covered by make up, and he seemed almost plastic in death, nothing more than a wax doll of the boy who was my brother. I didn't burst into tears, or beat at my chest like some girls do in plays.
I joined my family numbly, without any show of emotion. It just didn't seem real. I would wake up tomorrow, and this entire thing would just be a nightmare. And there I stood, nodding along with my parents feeling very much the dutiful child.
The day slowly drew to a close as the last people trickled in. They arrived when everyone else was leaving, probably ashamed at being there. Good. Feel ashamed.
They glided in nervously, some in our kind's clothing, and others in the robes of mourning that immediately identified them as wizards. My mother stiffened beside me, my father merely stared. The room was filled with silence, broken only by the silky rustling of the robes.
I refused to look at them as they approached the coffin, and soon the sound of sobbing began to permeate the atmosphere. My mother never relaxed, although my father took their comments with ease. I was viciously pleased to hear most of them sounded guilty, almost contrite.
"…the hell is this? He's not even wearing his robes!"
The voice was brimming with righteous fury, masculine in tone. My gaze shot up from my insanely interesting shoes to the speaker. A boy, around my brother's age. He was wearing a mourning robe, like a few of the others. A very vocal choice of clothing for this funeral in particular.
"At least show some respect for what he sacrificed himself for!" He continued, starting towards us, eyes accusatory. He stopped before my father, a good deal shorter than him, but somehow more threatening in his rage. I give my father credit for keeping a cool head. I certainly didn't.
"This is a funeral, young man," my father replied tiredly. "Please pay your respects and leave. We have no wish to draw this out."
He put his arm around my mother, whether for her sake or his own is hard to say.
"Why, so you can forget what happened and go back to your little lives?" The boy's anger just kept growing. "Do you realize the magnitude of your son's sacrifice? What he's done for you-"
And that is when the laughter began. It didn't grow, it just burst out as if I was a balloon that had just been popped. Hash and dangerous, I felt the laugh deep in my very marrow, and it was quite obvious that the sound unnerved the boy. He turned to me, just realizing I was there.
"Oh, what he's done for us," I began, sarcasm biting into the words like a frenzied shark. "What he's done for us! Don't you mean what he's done for you? For you…you freaks! He died because of you, and you actually have the nerve to march in here and tell us how ungrateful we are, just because we didn't dress him up to your standards?"
And now we were face to face. His red, my own probably a matching shade. He was my height, perhaps a bit shorter, but not by much.
"Freak? That robe is a symbol for all he stood for, for all he fought for! For all he died for! You have no right to-"
"He's not a doll, he's my brother!" I interrupted hysterically.
My voice, at this point, had gone from anything solid to the pitch of a shriek. I fully expected to burst into tears at this point, and I certainly didn't disappoint myself. Even he seemed a bit taken aback at how severe my sobs were, how sharp and how dissonant. He seemed to soften a bit, unused to a crying girl. He had quite obviously marched in expecting a fight, and what he got instead was some crying female.
"…you uh…you must be Jacinth…" he began haltingly, quieter now that rage was slowly being replaced with guilt. However, it was the wrong kind of guilt.
"Get out. All of you. Get out, now!" I screamed madly, lurching forward as if to attack.
For all their magic and power, they sure scattered fast. I must give credit where credit is due- they knew better than to further provoke a grieving, probably insane, sister. The boy gave one last look, a mix of confusion and anger, then fled along with the last.
I felt myself fall to my knees as sobs wracked my body, convulsing in a gross fashion. A strong hand touched my shoulder, and two soft arms enveloped me in comfort and pride.