Chapter XI :: Gloomy Sunday

The rain falls silently, pattering on the grass and umbrellas and stone markers around us without sound. I cannot make out anyone's face around me, only that of the white-skinned priest, his voice low and droning. I stare at the coffin before me, knowing who lays inside and feeling my heart break at the knowledge.

"…Let our hearts be deeply moved at this sight of death, and let us be mindful of our own frailty and mortality. Let us always walk in your wisdom and in obedience to your commandments with your help so that when we ourselves depart this world, we may experience a merciful judgment and rejoice in the everlasting happiness…"

The priest carries no umbrella, does not have one carried for him—his balding scalp falls mercy to the cold drops that land on his black robes and the small, pocket-sized book folded in his hands. I have no umbrella either. Yet I don't feel the rain. My suit is soaked through, my hair plastered to my face and my shoes leaking to the socks. It is now my vision of this scene blurs, the heat of my tears sliding down my cheeks, warming them of their chill. My hands fumble in my pant pockets, trying to keep the blood in my fingers. I am one of a small group, all crowded round the darkly-stained casket. Flowers pile upon it, absorbing the rain so that none reaches the one who rests inside. The cold bites at my face, despite the tears, numbing my nose and ears. I don't care—it is but a small price to pay.

"…Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her
Deliver me, O Lord, from everlasting death on that dread day when the heavens and the earth shall be moved, and you shall come to judge the world by fire…"

Most of those who stand at my sides and in front of me cry. Many didn't even know her, I tell myself. It does not comfort me that they came. It merely makes me more aware—I was the only one who could safely claim that I knew her. All of her, the things that made her who she was: cheerful and optimistic, beautiful, kind. I am the only one, even among those who were closest to her, who knows what killed her. I know why she died.

A man I recognize remains motionless next to me. His limbs are stiff, his own tears frozen as his body on his cheeks. Marlene holds her father's unmoving hand, her sobs the loudest of those who do weep—there are few things in this world that can transform her into the child she is, and this is one of them. She shakes and trembles, pressing herself against her father's leg to keep warm. Barret does not acknowledge her, his dark eyes fixed on the casket, quiet like the rain.

"…May the Angels lead you into Paradise; may the Martyrs receive you at your coming…may the choirs of the Angels receive you, and may you, with the once poor Lazarus, have rest everlasting…"

I bow my head; why should I be ashamed of my pain? I loved this woman, made memories with her, talked and laughed with her—why now should I hide the tears that are forcing their way through my own barricade? I clench my fists in my pockets, resisting what I know: the truth. I want to block out the image of this day, the grey of the sky and the black of the umbrellas that fold over the heads of those who wait for the burial, so they can retreat to their homes and mourn in their private ways, or not mourn at all and continue on.

The thought makes me sick, the notion of continuing.

"…O God, through whose mercy the souls of the faithful find rest, be pleased to bless this grave. Send your holy Angel to keep it; and loose from the bonds of sin the souls of those whose bodies here lie buried, that they may ever rejoice in you with your Saints…"

The service is almost at its end—the priest's voice hums in my brain, his words muffled and soft. It holds a monotony of one who has done his job several times over, of one who has heard the cries of friends and families and lovers, and no longer feels the difference between life and death. He reads from his little book, casting out the tears and the remorse as he would demons—all are the same to him. I watch him, noting the arch of his back as he hunches over the grave, the cut of his hair as it curves over his ears, shutting out the silence of the rain.

And it is then I notice her. She stands straight, drowned in black as everyone else, her umbrella tilted just so that her face is hidden from me, shadows cast over her eyes. But she cannot hide from me; I know who she is without having to see her face. My heart pounds in my chest, and as Barret shifts his weight to the other foot, I wonder for a moment that it may be heard by those around me, as it beats against my ribcage. Sensing my tunneled stare, her head comes up from the grass, her almond-shaped eyes focusing on me. My breath comes in short as she stands and watches me, unable to break away from sudden hold she takes. She eyes the coffin, then returns to me, but I do not move. My brain reels, unable to understand how this could work—she is dead, isn't she? If she is, then how could she be standing there, so solemn and unnoticed? I don't dare to blink, for fear of losing her a second time.

"…Grant that while we grieve the departure of our sister from this life we remember that we are to follow her. Give us grace to make ready for that time by a devout and holy life. Protect us from a sudden and unprovided death. Teach us how to watch and pray so when the call comes we may be ready to meet the Bridegroom and go with him into life everlasting. This we ask too Father in Christ our Lord. Amen." He makes the Sign of the Cross, and one by one each person, coupled by their sorrow, leaves. Barret glances at me, and squeezes his daughter's hand in response to her sniffling. She is a strong girl, no doubt.

The woman across from me does not move. After a moment it is only her and I, alone save for each other. I watch as she glides towards the casket, the hem of her dress rustling against the grass; wordlessly, she places a single cyclamen blossom atop all the other flowers that cover the coffin. I gaze at it, marveling at the curvature of the small purple-pink petals as they sprout from the sunken corms like flopping rabbit ears, the raindrops' landing muffled by their velvet delicacy. It is when I look up do I realize she is gone, and growing further away. I run to catch up with her, and grasp her arm to keep her from drifting. Her bare arm is cold, with nothing to protect it from the chill of the morning; I resist the urge to let go, holding on to her.

"Tifa! What's going on?" Her eyes drill into my brain, searching. Her brow furrows, and she places an frigid ivory hand on my cheek.

"You should go in, Cloud, before you catch a cold." It is not flat, her voice, but it hardly holds the love and happiness I once knew of her. She smiles slightly, sadly, reading my eyes; I take her hand in mine, busying myself with bringing the blood back into it while knowing my efforts are pointless.

"What's happened, Tifa? How could you let this happen?" The despondency in my own voice frightens me. She shrugs lightly, glancing past me into the mist.

"I wanted it. It's better this way."

Is it that simple? It certainly isn't enough. "How can it? You're gone. You're dead. How can that be better?" I can hear the pain in my own voice, the hopeless misery I feel when I look at her. Her skin is smooth, white to the rolling greys of the sky. Her dress is sheathed in black lace, strapless, wrapped tightly around her hollows and bones. The corner of my eyes sting when I see her; she brings her hand up again, to wipe at the tear that falls.

"Don't cry, Cloud. Please, don't cry for me." In one fluid motion I pull her in, keeping her against me.

"I'll tell you. It isn't better, it isn't. None of this is better, not you or the hospital—none of it!" I shudder. "I just want you back, that's all. I just want to hear your voice, listen to you speak and laugh. I've missed you so much."

"You're listening to me now, aren't you?" she asks.

"It's not the same." I bury my face in her hair, once again inhaling that sweetly noxious scent of flowers I cannot name. "I want to see you alive. Like you were, before all of this…" I feel her sigh into my shoulder, and my head becomes light, weightless.

"Before this…" It is as if she is remembering. "Please stop, Cloud. Give up. Don't come after me," she whispers. Her words, her voice is becoming ever the more harder to understand. "Leave me where I am. Let me go in peace. Please…" The words ring in my head, and as I feel the body beneath my fingers dissipate, I do not forget them. "Let me go…"

--

I sat up in bed—or rather, on the couch. It had taken me several seconds to reassure myself that it had been a dream, a dreadful, mind-consuming nightmare, and when the realization came I straightened from the sheer horror of it. It figured that the one time I was able to fall asleep, I was haunted by such a vision like this. She'd said the same thing, Tifa, the one who still lived: "it's better this way…give up"—"don't try please…it's too late." An diminutive part of me wanted to do as she requested—a tired, exhausted part, the lazy and uncaring piece that would have thrown in the towel a while back; the one persona of myself that I absolutely detested, the one section of my being I could never be fully rid of. The one who constantly questioned my efforts, asking 'Why bother?' The one I needed to kill and couldn't.

But Tifa was still alive. She wasn't dead—that was the difference.

I was tired, and exhausted. I wanted this to be over, but I wasn't going to give up when victory seemed so close—was so close. It merely made me wonder how many of Tifa's shields there were, how many guises of "I'm all right" I had to go through before I found her. How much could she smile, denying; how long could she confront me with a façade on her face and force herself into believing that I saw her the way she wanted me to see her, the way she wanted to see herself? I began to remember her smile, and questioned unconfidently whether most of the smiles she'd forced for us—for Avalanche and for me—had been as fake as the ones she'd shown me the past week, as blatant and as see-through; that it had been a failure on my part I hadn't realized the fallacy. Once again: if I hadn't noticed the signs while she was still ali—awake, how would I recognize her sincere form when it came? Once again, all I had to go by was gut instinct.

I led myself back to our most recent confrontation—too disturbed to attempt sleep, in any case. Out of her mind and into the real world, I knew now every answer she had provided to my inquires were lies, efforts to lead the conversation away from what I really wanted to know: the truth. Even towards the end, when her diversions became so obvious anyone could have been able to notice them, she refused to give in, to show me…

Why would she hide from me this much? What was it she so desperately needed to hide?

I'm going to go back soon, really…I mean, I have to. Meaning: she had no intention of ever returning to the living. Maybe she did like it where she was—whether she really did or not, or pretended to, in her mind, she wasn't, in all honesty, going to come with me willingly; without my interference, she would have stayed within the confines of her own conscience until her body lost what life she hadn't lost already. I had ruined her plans.

No wonder she had been so angry.

The soft yellow light from the streetlamps fell across my torso, dipping to the hardwood floor and across the room. I shivered, despite the warmth of the summer evening. …I'm sorry about those things I said. I didn't mean them. Not really. I hated recalling exactly which words she had chosen to elucidate my unconscious cruelty, knowing full well she had meant very much of what she had said. I could only pray the comment about killing me—the part about ripping my heart out and making me eat it—hadn't been her honest desire…

She's…the Cetra. The last Ancient. Your flower girl…

I paused, listening to the sound of my own breathing. What was with her constant referrals to Aeris? Whenever her name had been mentioned, regardless of what we'd been arguing about beforehand, Tifa would drop her defenses like stones and then spend the rest of our encounter rebuilding them while still trying to hide from me. I couldn't imagine how much resentment Tifa could hold for the woman, deceased as Aeris was—not much, surely? She possessed a certain antipathy towards me, that I knew. Yet as for her feelings towards the flower girl, I could only guess. Tifa was anything but weak—so how could such a name ignite so much pain simply by the sound of it?

Absently, I ran a hand through my hair, upset.

I'm just wondering…why you're here. I can't imagine why you bothered coming all this way just to talk to me… She truly didn't understand. Or maybe she did—I couldn't fully be sure, not until I learned to distinguish fiction from sincerity.

If I had learned anything through this, it was that women were complicated as all hell.

Poo. Cloud ramble—I really only posted this chapter because I love the dream sequence; I'm so proud of it. I wrote this while listening to the song "Duet" by Sigur Rós (cool Norwegians, highly recommended) at two in the morning, before I was even on chapter nine. Did you know you can get burial rites over the internet? I know I shouldn't be surprised, but I love the world we live in. Oh, and I forgot to put a disclaimer on the inscription on Tifa's mother's tombstone, 'cause it ain't mine. I got it from a movie somewhere (though I can't remember which), and liked the sound of it—sweet, simple, that sort of thing. Sorry! Anyways, I figure I can finish this story with a minimum of three chapters. Yay! And thank you all for your constant support, as always!

Raine