A/N Woah, two in one night. Slow down, girl, you'll get a cramp. Just cause I'm really curious if anyone really remembers all that shit. Also, I want to see how many times I can write fuck. Keep count and let me know.

I'm a mess.

I know my makeup is running down my cheeks, and I know my hair is something resembling a tree branch, and I know my eyes are red. I'm a mess, and it's all I can think about.

I told him to suck a fuck. I told him to suck a fuck. What does that even mean? Is that even an insult?

That was probably the last thing I said to him. I told him to suck a fuck.

Jesus, that has to mean something.

I should feel guilty, or sad, or angry, but I don't. It really isn't the last thing I said to him, I'm almost sure it wasn't. I said something else to him. Alot of things. But I didn't. I told him to suck a fuck and he went to bed. That's what I said. And then he died.

There aren't alot of people at the funeral. Frank had come, even though he'd met Donnie once, and it was for five minutes. He looked torn up though, guilty. I really didn't know why.

There was an engine, but no plane. What the fuck is that about. Engines don't fall from the sky without being attached to something. They do not aim for one sixteen year old kids room and leave the rest of the house relatively in tact. It doesn't happen. Sixteen year old kids shouldn't die like that. Sixteen year old kids shouldn't pick one night out of the entire year to sleep in his own fucking bedroom and then get the crap blown out of him by a fucking plane engine with no fucking plane. Sixteen year olds shouldn't have fucking funerals.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It doesn't even feel right, saying she's at her sixteen year old brother's funeral. it's just weird to the tongue. I'm going to my Grandma's funeral. I'm going to my Aunt's funeral. I'm going to my dog's funeral. I'm going to my sixteen year old brother's funeral?

Mom's comepletely still, just sitting there smoking what had to be her tenth cigerette. Samantha buried her head into Dad's chest, but no one said anything.

Everyone said he was strange. Our aunts and uncles and grandma's and grandpa's and friends, everyone said Donnie Darko was strange. He was, in all honesty. He said things that made no sense. He played with fire and he drew things that made people sick. He burned down abandoned houses and he rode bike out onto a cliff every night for no reason. He had imaginary friends. He was strange. He might have been phsycho. He was a text book case of fucked up, future serial killer.

In reality, though, he was just alone when he didn't want to be.

There was more they said to each other, but the logic said it never happened. His friends said they hadn't spoke to him since the day before, but they seemed hesitant. The girl with long brown hair who had her head bowed in the back that no one knew said she had never even met him, not once, but she just came.

Every one seemed distant. Everyone remembered things that couldn't have happened.

I was sure that last thing I said to him wasn't to go suck a fuck, whatever it meant. I said loads to him. I just couldn't remember, and neither could anyone else. But more was said, and Donnie probably knew it.

His body was lowered into the empty grave, but no one cried.

Middlesex was silent.

A/N How much was that. I started lowing it so I added another 'suck a fuck' in there.