Chapter 22 The Past
THE PAST
AMELIA’S brEAKING POINT
The knowledge of Lillian’s funeral severed my soul into jagged shards, each fragment echoing the emptiness that filled me.
The flowering goodness that once thrived within me evaporated, suffocated by the relentless downpour of grief.
Thank heavens for my grandparents, who stepped in to shoulder the financial burden of the funeral, for my mother was lost in an impenetrable haze, her spirit dulled and distant.
I stood before the mirror, scrutinizing the reflection that stared back at me. My hair fell loosely around my shoulders, framing my face, while the black dress clung tightly to my waist, a bitter reminder of the sorrow that enveloped me.
The girl in the mirror trembled, her mouth quivering as if echoing the turmoil within my heart. I turned away, walking from her gaze and shutting the door behind me, leaving that fragile version of myself in the dark.
The sound of my heels clicked against the wooden floor as I made my way to the living room.
There, I found my mother, slumped in the reclining chair, staring blankly out the window. As if searching for something lost beyond the glass.
I approached her slowly, nudging her shoulder, desperate for a connection. Any sign of the mother I once knew.
For a heartbeat, she remained still. Then she turned to me, her expression a vacant canvas, lips pressed into a thin line. “What is it?” she asked, her voice dragging like molasses in the still air.
“It’s time,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. I hoped she understood. She wore a dress nearly identical to mine, a dark mirror reflecting our shared grief.
She nodded, rising from the chair as if pulled by some invisible string.
I wished I could delve into her mind, to uncover the depths of her sorrow over the funeral of her daughter.
Was the mother I knew, vibrant and full of life, still trapped in there, clawing to the surface beneath the weight of despair?
I suggested driving us to the funeral home, concerned that her focus was elsewhere, and she accepted without protest. In the car, she sat rigid, hands clasped in her lap, her body as still as a statue. A tight silence settled between us, thick and uneasy.
As we arrived at the funeral home, I could see familiar faces among the crowd. Neighbors, acquaintances, and a few distant family members from my mother’s side who had come out of obligation, not out of love.
Their eyes averted, guilt settling in their expressions, as they whispered behind hands that once shunned us. My father’s family was scattered across states, strangers to me since his departure, a shadowy absence in my life.
I spotted my grandparents seated in the middle pew; their heads bent in muted conversation. I approached, forcing a sad smile, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life. “Hey, long time no see,” I murmured.
They looked up, sympathy adorned their expression. “Hey, darling. How are you holding up? I was shocked when I heard of her passing,” my grandma said, rising to envelop me in a warm embrace.
I shrugged, masking my pain beneath a veneer of composure. “I’m sad. It was very tragic, but I know Lillian wouldn’t want me to dwell.” If only they understood the depth of the wound that gaped within me.
“I understand. She was your only sister! It’s okay to feel sad, sweetheart,” my grandma replied, her voice laced with concern.
“Yeah, I’m still grieving for her.” My grandpa joined in, offering a comforting hug and his condolences.
“How’s my daughter doing? I’ve heard about the state she’s been in.” His eyes shifted toward my mother, who stood beside the coffin, gazing down at Lillian’s cold, lifeless body. I couldn’t bear to look. The thought of seeing Lillian as a corpse gnawed at me, a visceral reminder that she was gone.
I bit my lip, struggling to articulate my thoughts. “She’s grieving too, in her own way. I honestly hope this sparks something in her to try to get better.”
My grandma nodded thoughtfully. “Those things take time. I know Judy loves you both, despite how she may be acting. The loss of a daughter is monumental; she must be suffering.” The truth weighed upon me like a trench.
My mother could only find healing if she chose it, and I had learned there was nothing I could say or do that would change her at this point.
“Yeah, I know she’s definitely feeling something,” I replied, letting the conversation drift away.
After another embrace with my grandparents, I returned to my mother’s side. She remained silent, her face devoid of expression, as she received condolences with mere nods and soft replies consisting of “thank you.”
I gently squeezed her hand, hoping to offer some hint of comfort. She glanced at me, her eyes blinking slowly, then withdrew, turning her focus back to the preacher.
In the front row, I found myself unable to tear my gaze from the dark coffin that held Lillian’s body.
The more I stared, the more the tears flowed, each sob wracking my shoulders as the pastor’s words washed over me like a distant storm, muffled yet powerful enough to ruin me.
A few people stepped up to the microphone to share their memories of her, and I was compelled to do the same.
I wiped my eyes, acutely aware of their puffiness and the devastation etched on my face. As I walked up the steps to the microphone, I scanned the crowd, a lump forming in my throat. I wanted to run, to scream, to escape this unbearable reality.
Taking a shaky breath, I began to speak.
“Lillian was my sister. She was funny, smart, and wonderful. Tragically, her life was cut short because she gave up on herself. She had her ups and downs, but she was still my sister, and I love her. It breaks my heart knowing I will never see her again. I will miss her and hope she’s looking down on me now, smiling. ”
My voice cracked, but I steeled myself to continue.
“I remember when we were little, she was full of life and light. We would stay up late playing games or spend sun-drenched days in the park. I will cherish those memories forever. She had a kind, genuine soul, and so much potential. May you rest in peace, Lillian.”
The sorrowful faces around the room spoke volumes, their downturned eyes and sad sighs spilling over.
They didn’t truly know her; they only saw the version Lillian chose to present, the smile that masked her struggles.
I stumbled down the steps, returning to my seat beside my mother, who remained an enigma, her silence both infuriating and heartbreaking.
When it was time to follow the funeral car to the burial site, I gripped the steering wheel, my hands trembling as reality crashed down on me. Lillian was dead. We were about to bury her.
I began to sob quietly, the tears spilling over, though I thought I heard my mother’s soft cries beside me.
As we parked and made our way to the grave, tremors shook my body, my vision blurring as I approached the pit.
She’s gone.
They were lowering her into the ground forever. A primal urge surged within me, a desperate need to snatch her back from the depths of the earth.
When the coffin was finally lowered, an anguished thought echoed in my mind: Come back. Don’t leave me alone with the monsters.
I stood frozen at the edge of the grave, terrified to leave her behind. My mother’s voice telling me she wanted to leave barely registered in my mind; I was transfixed by the earth that would soon cover my sister.
As the crowd began to disperse, a dark thought coiled within me: Good riddance.
I felt a deep loathing for the very people who had turned their backs on Lillian, now feigning sorrow as they paid their respects. They had driven her to this point with their callousness, and now, in the wake of her death, they pretended to care.
But the most unbearable pain came from the absence of Caiden, the boy who had contributed to her downfall, who had not even bothered to show his face.
The wound inside me festered, transforming into a toxic anger, an urge to unleash my pain upon him.
“Dante, I need to talk to you.” I caught him in the hallway a few days later, his surprise was evident. In that moment, Dante was a pawn, and I intended to use him.
Something inside of me had permanently snapped, and I couldn’t care about using the one person who didn’t deserve it.
He led me outside to a picnic table; curiosity etched on his face. “What’s up?”
“Remember when you asked if there was anything you could do for me?”
“Yeah. The offer still stands.” Dante stared at me with open curiosity.
“Well, could I come over to your house tonight? I just... I feel so alone, and I need someone to talk to, especially after the sudden death of my sister.” My voice was soft, innocent, though it masked my true intentions.
His brown eyes softened, filled with a pitiful concern. “Of course,” he replied, and that was all I needed.
Later that night, I crept up the creaking porch stairs, arms wrapped around two dusty bottles of whiskey stolen from my mother’s secret stash.
The moonlight pooled through the cracked front door as he swung it open, eyes narrowing at the gleam of glass in my hands.
“What’s that for?” His voice was low and curious, a thread of concern twisting around the question.
“Oh, nothing special,” I replied, forcing a brittle smile that trembled at the edges. The sweet burn of guilt turned my throat dry. “I just needed a drink, and I thought we could share.”
I stepped inside. He shrugged and led me to the sagging couch, where a single lamp cast shadows on the walls. We poured generous glugs of amber liquid into two tumblers, the scent of alcohol stinging my nostrils.
His parents’ absence felt like a private stage for whatever I intended.
As I took a slow sip, feeling the warmth spread through my chest like liquid fire, I watched him tilt his head back, draining his glass in a single, greedy gulp.