December 24th. Two p.m. Eastern Standard Time."
A twinge of a smile. Shaking fingers. The nervous tapping of chewed-up nails reminds Mark that he never had been able to hide his emotions.
"Pan left. Zoom in on the steeple of the church."
Flakes of snow splatter the lens. Mark scowls. Wipes them away with a sigh, eyeing his flannel sleeves. The camera slowly drops as the film ceases to run. A glimpse downward reveals plaid pants, an oversized sweatshirt, all framed by that token stripe-y scarf.
"Zoom in on my utter fucking lack of fashion sense."
Bitter. Edgy. Shaken. So many adjectives could be used for that voice. For how he feels.
He sits down, cross-legged, on the snowy earth. More nervous tapping. Clouds of white fluttering through the cold, stale air. Touches the scarf. Grabs the front of the sweatshirt. Inhale. It still smells like him. He winds up the camera again. Starts back with a shaky voice.
"Payback's a BITCH, ain't it, Rog?"
"Why don't you just do everyone a favor and fucking DIE? I'm so SICK of your SHIT."
A wince at the memory. Their worst fight ever. Too bad he never got a chance to apologize.
Plaid pants. Mark lowers the camera again and slowly runs his fingers down the material. Is it morbid to wear someone's clothing to their funeral? Swallow. Breathe. Shaken head. "'S how you'd've wanted it, isn't it?" Inhale. Exhale. "None of this tuxedo, button down shit." Fingers trailing, running across the cement of the grave stone. A frown. Blink. "Not what you'd wanted." Mark lets his shoulders sink. Tilts his head. "Just here for the worms." He clambers back to his feet. Doesn't realize he's left the camera running.
"Focus on the grave. The memorial to a rock star."
Exhale.
"The last goodbye."