Attending My Own Funeral

Attending my own funeral was not the weirdest thing I’ve done. No, seriously, why is your right eye twitching? In fact, this is the least weird thing that has happened to me yet. I remember the time when-

“Hello? Is anyone sitting here?” a girl’s voice snapped me back to the present. The girl had large, brown eyes that seemed so fragile that they might break, just like the dark porcelain she had for skin. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she was wearing a dark, depressing dress. It was complicated, which was even more depressing, due to her normal clothes. This girl was also known as Sarah, my best friend.

“No,” I stuttered, barely recognizing her. Sarah was all about flowing hair, baggy jeans, and loose sleeves. The tight fit was a weird, odd look on her. Leave it to my bad luck to have to endure my own funeral sitting next to my old best friend without being able to speak to her as myself. I knew she wouldn’t recognize me. My long, straight, chocolate brown hair was now chopped short and curled into soft ringlets, and the tips were dyed a pale lilac that contrasted my own dark, depressing dress. My dress was black and sophisticated in a way, the skirt hanging to my knees in layered tulles and the high neckline embroidered with a black heart. My hazel eyes were covered by green contact lenses. It was beautiful in its own way, but it simply was not me.

“How’d you know Iris?” Sarah asked, breaking the silence politely, referencing to myself. Right. We were at my funeral.

“Oh, distant family member,” I lied. “What’s your name?”

“Sarah. Iris was my best friend. I miss her already,” she sighed, blinking hard. “I’m hoping she isn’t dead. They said that they found the body, but I don’t think it’s true.”

“Who?” I asked, now curious.

“The investigators. Iris went all MIA one day, and then boom, her parents found her mangled bracelet in the mail with no return address. The bracelet she never took off,” Sarah whispered, a small tear tricking down the grooves of her face.

The truth? I was walking home from school when the darkness enveloped me. The darkness swallowed me, blurring my senses and numbing my muscles so that I couldn’t even put up a fight. If I could even fight the darkness. I woke up in a haze, finding myself in a bedroom- a bedroom that wasn’t my own with all my stuff gone except the clothes I was wearing the day before. The walls were plain, boring white, just like the bed sheets. All the furniture was either wooden or plastic. In other words, it was a boring, typical bedroom with no personalized decoration or taste. My own bedroom was much more colorful than the bland, boring colors that were displayed.

I went outside, and I noticed that I was at an academy. I worked my way through the hallways, found the stairs, and trampled down to the academy grounds where I interrogated anyone I found. And all anyone would tell me was that I was in grave danger and the only place I was safe was there, in the academy grounds. Then they would vanish or slide out of my grip before I could stab them with the cheap compass used in Geometry to draw circles that my old school provided.

“Newbie? The government is after you, me, and all of us here. This is the only place we are safe,” explained a girl gently.

“The government?! Why would the government be after me?!” I exclaimed incredulously.

“You’re a threat, nonetheless. I’m not the one who decides that, and I’m not allowed to tell you anything else. I remember my first days-” she trailed of wistfully.

“What’s the academy’s name?” I asked.

“I’m not allowed to tell you, which I agree is ridiculous. Just look at the signs,” she suggested. The moment I looked away, the girl just vanished.

I not only looked at the signs, but I followed the signs straight to the Headmistress’s office. I was not put down by anything. I wanted answers, and I was going to get answers. I marched into the Headmistress’s office, adrenaline surging through my body as I slammed the door open.

“Excuse me?” I demanded. “Where am I? Why am I here? How am I here? What time is it? Where is my bracelet? Where is my family? How far away is my house? How do I get to my house?!?!”

“Your name?” requested the Headmistress, not even looking up.

“What do you mean, my name?! I don’t belong here! And heck, why am I even here?!” I insisted.

“Your name, young lady,” she repeated sternly.

“Iris. Iris Matilda Hamilton. Now may you please answer my questions?!” I crossed my arms impatiently.

“Please have a seat, Ms. Hamilton. We have much to discuss,” she said.

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The funeral began as depressing music filtered the air. An old, boring guy began saying old, boring things about me. Wow. Of all the people my parents could’ve chosen for my funeral, they hire an old, boring man.

“He’s professional,” I could hear my mom chide.

So, while the old man was yapping, I observed the details of the funeral. Purple potted irises were on display, the only pop of color against the traditionally bland black. My parents kept the guest list small. I saw my closest friends, each looking pale at the thought I was dead. I saw aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins alike in a stiff, formal fashion. Family members from across the country attended online. Everybody was preoccupied by their own thoughts. Nobody really payed attention to the old minister talking- no droning on like it was a boring History lesson we were all forced to attend.

If I had designed my funeral, it would have been a party. A party that celebrated my life and honored my accomplishments and achievements (not that I had that many at the age of ten). But I would rather it be an exchange of happy memories rather than a depressing lecture on life and its meanings. Really, I hadn’t even bothered to listen hard enough to decipher the minister’s yapping about the philosophy of life.

“But we should make it traditional,” I heard my dad scold.

That itself sent a tear trickling down my face. Dad. Mom. Sisters. Loved ones that I would never get to embrace again as Iris Matilda Hamilton. Because to them, I was dead.