The click-clack of heels carry Sophie up the stairs as I straighten my silk blouse, fiddling with the already fastened buttons. I don’t want to be seen today and I don’t mean physically seen, I can handle that; I mean seen. I don’t want someone to peel the layers away, breaking into the hurt and anger that I’ve been locking up inside of me. If someone manages to let it out, I won’t be able to contain it. It will consume me; the darkness, the shadows, the voices. Everything I have crammed into the box in the corner of my mind.

The only person I want to confide in, is the same person I’m going to say goodbye to for the final time. The person who put themselves in danger to protect me. He would know what to do. He would reach inside my mind, take the box, and place it in front of us. Then, whilst holding my hand, he would open it and slowly let each emotion creep out. First, the sadness and the guilt; I would cry in his arms, as he stroked my hair and whispered sweet nothings. Letting me sit in silence, just holding me. Second, the anger, frustration and resentment. Even though targeted at him, he would help me glove up and let me exert all the built-up tension. Then would come the emptiness; the soul-crushing feeling of abandonment. My pulse thumps in my head at the thought, the sound dulling out all my surroundings.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I want to scream, the repetition becoming too much for me to handle.

Make it stop!

Thump. Thump. Thump.

How can I make it stop?

Strong hands grip my shoulders, their fingertips pressing in. Slowly, I hear them; the sobs and sniffles in the background. My eyes dart around unfocused, before landing on Tanner standing directly in front of me. He’s sternly calling my name, trying to bring me back.

* * *

Sitting front row at a funeral hits differently. In all honesty, if I wasn’t required front row at a funeral, I probably wouldn’t go. I don’t understand those oldies, you know the ones. The ones that check the local paper and read the death notices to see if there is anyone that they know. I guess it’s just the progression of life though, right? Engagement announcements, weddings, pregnancies and births … Then the death notices.

This is my fifth time sitting in the front row at a funeral. Five fucking times. Pale, grieving faces of people dressed in black flash in my vision from each funeral I’ve attended.

Nine years old when my dad was presumed dead.

Ten years old to bury my brother.

Seventeen years old when Jesse’s dad passed away.

Eighteen years old and left alone in the world by my mother.