Disconnected

Back straight, eyes forward, you observe with little interest or connection but your face betrays nothing. Why are you here in this stuffy run down funeral parlour? You don’t care; it’s not the loss of anyone you know. You could use the time better for something else, but obligations….

You take a deep breath, but it is relinquished as an extended and silent sigh. Well, you didn’t want to let it all out quickly and noisily; that would have caused dozens of glaring faces to scrunch up in disgust. It may even cause a few disappointed shakes of a head. You would know, you made it happen before. It happened 2 years ago, when you were 14 in fact. It was not to your parent’s delight. They scolded and disciplined you pretty harshly for that. The agonizing memory of your spanking remains like a permanent souvenir, the searing pain on your buttocks almost reoccurring every time you contemplate exposing your boredom. But it was true though, it was goddamn boring, why were you persecuted for telling the truth?

The idleness batters on your sanity, your youthful vigour catalysing the violent bubbling of your frustration. Your helpless gaze drifts from your scruffy leather shoes and slack covered legs across the aisle to a seemingly endless row of identical wooden pews which seat the other half of the guests. Your attention drifts to a lady sitting in the back row, directly across from you. She is young, short and dons entirely black apparel; face partially covered by a lopsided charcoal veil and dark mascara. You notice her because she was crying. She looks pitiful there by herself as she weeps, the mascara bleeds from her eyes like black tears, neutralizing the tan foundation powder, forming veins of mercury down the obliques of her reddened face. The sight of it damn near kills you. The guilt of feeling bored almost disappears. You look up and see the speaker burst out in tears almost in synchronisation with the woman; 2 actors in an emotional drama. Soon the whole room is filled with sniffles, painful wallowing and sobs, as if everyone had contracted a virus which was eating them from the inside out.

But all you do is just sit there. You feel that you should cry as well but you can’t. You feel nothing for that man whose body lies lifeless and beautifully dressed in an intricately carved wooden box. The deathly pale and cold aura which he emanates does not make any connection with your sentiments; all you feel is utter detachment. People in the row behind you pat your back and reassure its ok to cry for the man who had died, as he was a true “hero”. You wouldn’t want anyone to cry at your funeral, you wouldn’t want them to embarrass themselves. You feel trapped, helpless and alone, the thought of it prompts a bead of water to escape through the corner of your eye. Why were you crying for someone who you have and never will know? The thought rattles your mind as you close your eyes and mutely hang your head as if to weep, anxiously awaiting the bitter snivels to slowly but inevitably die away.

The wake awaited in an adjacent room plastered with white paint. Silverware and bulging plates were stacked with a plethora of fine food which lay pre-prepared in the glow of the morning sun on a long wooden table that stretched to almost match the width of the room. Waiters and waitresses in identical uniforms flanked the table with their hands behind their backs, gaze wandering innocently but impatiently around the ceiling of the room, oblivious to the emotional suffering of the guests they were serving. You take a seat next to your watery eyed parents, the luxuriously cushioned dining seat a great relief from the cold and hard surface of the pew. You watch as the sniffles and pained tears are soon muffled and replaced by clattering of cutlery, furious munching and jovial chatter. An old man who sits in front of you roars in laughter, one arm swilling an over filled glass full of wine while the other wrapped around the initially crying young woman. She is laughing now. The sight disgusts you and your eyes drift away. Your fork pierces into a shank of meat and you chew it slowly, careful to make as little noise as possible. A flat and bland taste of overcooked beef dulls your taste buds; you had no appetite for such an occasion. Your father turns from his happy conversation and asks you about the food. “It’s great right?” he says. You smile and reply “yeah, pretty good”. Before you can finish he has turned around already.
The crying, the eating, the sudden happiness; it is all a bit too much. You throw your glass of wine on the floor and it shatters, sending shards of glass spinning on the marble floor. You hold your head with both your hands. Heads immediately turn to look as if in some fascination something interesting had happened. You can feel their cold eyes, filled with disapproval, bore into you as the chatter silences. All that comes to your mind as the glass is propelled across the now pinot covered marble is an ice skater. You think of an ice skater as they effortlessly glide across the ice, delicate in their motion, gracefully transitioning from spin to skating; free and without constraint. You want to say how you felt, scream to the world how sickened you are with their performance. You could, but you didn’t; you just apologize and say your elbow slipped and you continue eating your steak. Anything otherwise would have been rude.