It Was The Perfect Day For a Funeral

(This is the fourth installment of the My Alternates series. If you haven't already, read the first here.)

Phoebe held the bouquet of marigolds tight between her fingers. She pinched at the stiff fabric of her slacks and shifted the hem of her blouse. Her shoulders ached from the tension in her neck. Her eyes didn’t lift from the trampled grass at her feet.

It was the perfect day for a funeral, the sky thick with clouds and the threat of rain. Even a few crows clustered underneath a nearby willow tree.

Phoebe wasn’t entirely sure why she was here. Something inside of her had twisted at the thought of not going, but now that she was here, it felt disrespectful. After all, she was the one who caused all of this.

She didn’t recognize half her relatives, having not seen them in nearly a decade, but they all seemed to recognize her. She was hard to miss with her fiery orange hair and big green eyes and the rumors that swarmed her like gnats.

She felt grateful that no one tried to speak to her. She wasn’t sure what she’d have done if someone came up to her and talked about how great her uncle had been or how they’d miss him or how thankful they were to have him in their life.

He hadn’t been great. She didn’t miss him. And she wished he hadn’t played any part in her life at all.

But he had, and something inside of her hurt.

He’d put her through hell. He’d ruined her childhood. He’d taken away everything she should have had.

But it hadn’t all been terrible. It hadn’t all been yelling and crying and bruises. Some of it had been good.

She wasn’t sure if what she was feeling was grief or not, but tears pricked behind her eyes and she had to lift her gaze to the sky to hold them off.

She didn’t have the right to cry.

She was the one who murdered him.

She huddled into herself in the very back, clutching her bouquet of marigolds to her chest, trying desperately to remain invisible, but still, the eyes followed her. They pierced her skin like needles, and she didn’t know how much longer she could hold out.

Hushed whispers surrounded her, but the worst of it all was her grandmother, the woman who had taught her how to bake pecan pies and sew her own Halloween costumes, who helped her learn how to ride a bike and held her hand to steady her as she tried ice skating for the first time. Her sarcastic remarks and no-nonsense attitude had been one of the only highlights of Phoebe’s childhood. She’d thought, out of all her relatives, her grandmother would be the most sympathetic, but it was her who cast the coldest glare.

Phoebe looked up only when her grandmother stepped up front to deliver the eulogy. She rocked back and forth in her black flats as she listened to her list all the wonderful things her uncle had done, not the least of which being taking in Phoebe after her mother’s death. She rambled on and on about how his life should be commemorated and celebrated as the treasure it was.

Phoebe felt sick.

She was torn between anger and sadness, a fury for what happened, and a sorrow for what could have been.

Her uncle wasn’t exactly a bad man, but he had done bad things, and Phoebe hadn’t yet found the strength in her heart to forgive him.

Everything hurt.

It was too much.

She shouldn’t be here.

She shouldn’t have come.

Her grandmother finished her speech, and the relatives began to approach the open casket to pay their respects. Phoebe backed up, just barely catching a glimpse of her grandmother’s icy eyes as she turned and hurried away.

The crows scattered as she passed underneath the willow tree with the wind whispering through its branches.

The soft thud of Phoebe’s footsteps accompanied her as she walked, the only solace in the silent graveyard. She knew the way by heart, even though she hadn’t been there in four years.

When she reached the grave, she stopped, and something pinched in her chest. She knelt and laid the marigolds gently in the grass, biting down on her bottom lip.

According to the diaries she’d read, they had been her mother’s favorite.

Phoebe brushed off the gravestone and ran her fingers over the name carved in the stone.

‘Chrissie Locket.”

Below which, the date of birth and the date of death, Phoebe’s birthday.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” Phoebe whispered.

She sat there for a moment more before rising to her feet. She turned and jumped at the sight of her grandmother standing just behind her with crossed arms and lips wrinkled into a scowl.

“You have a lot of nerve, coming here.” She hissed.

Phoebe hesitated. “He was my family too and I—”

The old woman scoffed. “Your family? Is this what you do to your family, huh? Murder them? Who’s next? Me? Your Uncle James?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Ha!” The old woman laughed. “Fair?! You’re talking to me about what’s fair?”

Phoebe took a step back. “I’m sorry—”

“You’re sorry?!” She snapped. “It’s a bit too late for sorry’s.”

“I didn’t want this to happen.” Phoebe wrung her hands together. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“You never do, do you?” Her grandmother sneered. “But this is all your fault. My daughter is dead because of you, and then you have to go and kill my son too, just for good measure. My only children, dead, because of you. Heaven knows how you got exonerated for the murder of an innocent man—”

“It was self-defense.” Phoebe objected. “And he wasn’t innocent.”

“My son would have never hurt you. He loved you.”

“He didn’t love me!” Phoebe snapped and anger flared through her. She stepped back to steady her as she felt Shards and Shark grow closer, drawn by her distress.

Do you need me? She heard the words in her mind, and she breathed out through her teeth, her hands trembling.

Yes. She replied.

The graveyard fell out of focus and Phoebe felt the distance grow between her and the physical world. Shards stepped forward into the body and took control from Phoebe’s shaking fingers.

Her back straightened and her eyes narrowed.

It had all happened so fast. Only seconds had passed, but for them, it felt like an eternity.

Shards’ words were ice. “Your son didn’t love anybody but himself. He was an abusive asshole and he deserved to die.”

Phoebe’s grandmother reeled back as though Shards had slapped her.

“How dare you!” She gasped. “How dare you!”

Shards stepped close to her, her voice lowering dangerously. “Listen to me very closely, grandma, you and your self-righteous wrinkled ass better turn around and wobble your way back to the rotten corpse of your son before you end up in the ground right beside him.”

The old lady’s lips opened in a shocked ‘O’. It took a moment for her to gather her wits back together, but when she did, she met Shards' glare with a cold one of her own.

“You know I didn’t believe it when they told me.” She shook her head. “But I should have. I always knew there was something unnatural about you. Those idiot scientists can claim whatever they want, but I’ll always know the truth. It’s demons you have in you. Not even the might of the lord Jesus can save your wretched soul now!”

Shards just laughed. She stepped back and cast the old woman an icy smirk.

“There’s no demons here, grandma, only humans.”

She turned and strode back through the graveyard to the small grey car that waited for her by the road. Winsley glanced over her as she slid into the passenger seat and sighed.

“Shards?” Shards nodded. “So, it went that bad did it?”

Shards leaned back in the seat and rested her eyes shut.

“Let’s just get out of here.”

Winsely chuckled sorely. “Don’t have to tell me twice.

____

When they got back to their shared apartment, Shards was gone, and Dalia was near tears.

Winsely wrapped her arm around the girl as they walked from the car up the three flights of stairs to their door. She led her into her bedroom and lifted the covers up over her before returning to the kitchen to make some hot chocolate.

Dalia stared at the ceiling with hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

She’d done this.

She’d killed him.

The others had tried to comfort her, telling her she had no choice, that it was the only way, that she’d done the right thing, but she’d pushed them all away.

She curled her arms tight around her body.

It didn’t matter what they thought. They weren’t the ones who took that Eifel tower miniature and buried it in their uncle’s neck. They weren’t the ones who had been covered in his blood. They weren’t the ones to see the life drain out of his eyes. They weren’t the murderers.

That was all Dalia.

Winsely came back in with the hot chocolate and the bed dipped as she sat down.

“I’m sorry this happened.” She murmured.

Dalia bitterly wiped away her tears. “It shouldn’t have.” She hissed. “This is all Thea’s fault. She wouldn’t listen to us and she nearly got us—” She broke down and pulled her knees into her chest. “It’s all her fault. None of this would have happened if she’d just shut up and listened.”

Winsely stared down at the hot chocolate. “She was confused. She was just trying to—”

“I don’t care.”

“Dalia—”

“Don’t.” Dalia turned away and buried her head into her pillow. “Just don’t. I want to be alone.”

Winsely frowned but nodded. She set Dalia’s hot chocolate on the nightstand and closed the door quietly behind her on the way out.

Dalia had never felt so much anger, so much betrayal, so much hatred. She was seething with fury. She shouldn’t have had to be the one to protect them. That was Shark’s job, Shards’ job. Even Season would have been better suited than Dalia. Dalia was just a girl with a lot a pain, tasked with holding their darkest memories and their deepest miseries. This was never supposed to happen to her. She should have never been in that position.

And if it weren’t for Thea, she wouldn’t have been.

Dalia knew it was unfair for her to hate Thea. She knew Thea just wanted to know the truth about their uncle, knew she took them back with only good intentions. But her naivety nearly cost them everything. And Dalia couldn’t forgive that.

She laid on their bed and stared and cried and fumed and thought until she got so tired, she fell asleep, but not even in her dreams did she get peace.