1. Death & A Funeral
DEATH & A FUNERAL
DALTON
“W e’re gathered here today for the dearly departed…”
A priest drones on, his voice sounding like buzzing insects. Or maybe that’s the whispers of the congregation. Or the sizzling of my skin. Surely, a sinner like myself should burst into flames instead of calmly sitting on a church pew.
A woman keens loudly in the back of the church. Her wailful moans carrying toward me and making my palms itch to slide a blade into it and permanently silence her fucking fake crying. Nobody misses Charles Lewis that much, not even the secretary he fucked regularly, who sits near the casket with silent crocodile tears sliding down her made-up face. Must be top dollar make-up to not smudge or look out of place.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I spot black nail polish catching the light streaming in from the stained glass. My cousin, Deaton, rests a hand on my bouncing knee. I hadn’t realized my entire body’s buzzing with activity.
My other cousin, Rhys, lounges lazily on my left, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t bother touching me. He knows better and Deaton foolishly trusts I won’t skin him in the middle of my adoptive father’s funeral service. Charles Lewis tolerated me. And I’m barely tolerating this stuffy, tight suit that covers nearly every inch of skin. Maybe Aunt Shirley thought everyone would mistake me for the Grim Reaper with my skeletal tattoo stretching from the tips of my fingers to just below my jaw and that’s why she insisted on the suit.
Would Deaton miss his mother if I killed her?
“Quit fucking fidgeting,” he snaps in my ear. I gnash my teeth at him, regretting allowing him to confiscate my knives. Maybe he knows me better than I give him credit for. Either fucking way, I’m done with the droning and buzzing and wailing of sheep. Any more of it and I’ll really shock everyone by throwing the casket wide open, jumping into it, and peeling the flesh from dear old Charles. It’d be a bitch with rigor mortis toughening the skin.
“I’m out of here,” I growl at my cousin, body poised to jump out of the pew. Pain lances my wrist and I look down to see the fucker pulled one of my blades out of his pocket and made a superficial cut through the folded down cuffs at my wrist. Blood wells and makes my stomach grumble. Immediately, I want a rare steak, licking my lips at the blood.
“Your ass is staying until they throw fucking dirt on the casket. I am not,” Deaton growls, “covering for you if you bail cause your head ain’t screwed on tight. If Rhys and I have to suffer through this service then so do you. Now, be fucking still.” Metal glints then the blade gets stowed back into my cousin’s pocket. Oh, sure, he gets to have a weapon, but I’m not trusted with one.
Ears burning at the tongue lashing and feeling like a damn child that got its ass spanked, I huff back into my seat, crossing my arms to emulate Rhys. His lips curl out of the corner of my eyes and he too is lucky I’m unarmed. I’d give his pretty boy face a permanent damn smile. Deaton’s nail polish gleam as he tugs on his cuffs unnecessarily.
How the fuck did I get saddled with Hollywood and Metalhead for cousins? The world truly isn’t fair.
* * *
“A nother!” I slur, slamming a shot glass down onto damp, varnished wood. Rhys’ baby blues look me up and down critically and with a sigh, he refills my glass. Smoke drifts from the lit end of Deaton’s cigarette.
“You should really cut him off,” he tells his cousin. My cousin? My head shakes, sloshing liquid around. Whatever. We’re somebody’s cousins.
“His dad died. I think he’s entitled to get trashed. And its fun to watch him slow down. Always bouncing around like he’s doing coke,” Rhys complains. My dad died? A laugh bubbles from me. I suppose he did but if we’re talking biological, then I don’t know that fucker. No, Charles took that information with him to the grave and not even his solicitor would tell me who my birth parents were.
“I should go find my dad. Make him pay,” I say but the words traveling to my ears sound funny, like I said them too fast. Rhys chuckles, shaking his head and causing blonde hair to brush his forehead. Deaton snorts and more smoke wafts my way. I look around the barely lit bar, taking in the gyrating bodies on the dance floor, flashing strobe lights, and the inconspicuous bouncers stationed in odd corners. Rhys must really like people to own and manage a bar. That or he’s a masochist cause he always looks constipated when he’s interacting with people that aren’t paying patrons.
“Pay for giving me up,” I mumble, rediscovering my original train of thought. Cunt Samantha—my dead foster mother—never told me the name of my birth parents either. No, she merely taunted me with the knowledge that I was unwanted and an abomination. I wish I could revisit the euphoria of slitting her throat and silencing her for good. Maybe I’ll see her in the next life.
Another laugh stumbles from my numb lips. Why are they numb?
“Let it go, Zac. It’s in the past,” Deaton says, smoke spilling from his mouth and nostrils. Some of it snakes down my throat, spurring a coughing fit. A large hand slams into my back, trying to force the smoke out.
“Damn,” I groan. “Don’t ever give me fucking CPR. You’ll crack my ribs beating on my chest like you just did to my back.” Rhys laughs, even white teeth catching the light. They think I’m joking. About my biological parents, that is.
But for too long the thought simmered in my mind. Where are they? Was Samantha right? There’s only one way to find the answers I seek and that’s by cutting it out of them.
And I don’t mean that figuratively.
“Mazel tov, Charles,” I whisper into the rim of my glass, downing the whiskey back in one motion. I hope you’re enjoying Hell, you old bastard.