The Funeral

*TW Substance abuse (Alcohol)--Mental Health--Suicidal Ideation—-Language.

Here I was dressed in black, prepared to say my last goodbyes to someone I thought I would share my life with. I suppose that's one of the greatest fallacies we suffer from as people; the idea that something could last forever in a world where nothing lasts forever. Then again, this could just be my embitterment talking. I had a tendency to "detach myself from humanity in moments where I might have to show vulnerability...." according to my therapist at least. And yet, here I was (albeit with the aid of some good bourbon,) prepared to forever say goodbye to my greatest love.

I remember when we first met how fucking much she believed in me. When I told most people I was a writer, they pretty much decided I was just an unemployed bum. For the record, a lot of the time they weren't wrong. I believed in what I did, and she sensed that. I really thought I could make a literal difference with silly metaphors and buffoonish punchlines spilled on to the page like the morning coffee I need to sober up. As a kid, writing was my way to escape a mundane, small town reality. It was my way of becoming something more than the shattered and broken soul of a child who was beaten to a bloody pulp by his own father. More than the six year old who watched as his dad knocked his mom down and kicked her in the stomach so violently that he ruptured her spleen and she nearly died. Writing helped me rise above the trauma. Through my words, I could become something relevant, something great. With a few short strokes on a keyboard I went from being ordinary to becoming a main character who saves the world. Unfortunately, I lived long enough to realize that this version of myself, the handsome, heroic role model, was exactly like my books: a work of pure fiction.

Those years where I lived under the delusion of greatness were some of the best of my life though, and Hannah made that possible. I always believed I was one big manuscript away from a best selling novel, or one studio read away from having a script win an Oscar. I was always "so close" in my own little world, while the reality was that I was just another asshole competing in a realm packed full of other self-important assholes. When the facade finally wore off and I finally saw myself for what I truly was, then I became bitter.

When I lost faith in myself, it changed something in her. I suppose I can't blame her. She was a beautiful, passionate soul, why would she want to spend her time around a man who threw his dreams in the gutter? Then again, who would put up with living with a man who made big promises based on an overinflated ego and never once was able to follow through? Seems like I was a joke on both ends of the spectrum, and like my books, not the kind of jokes that actually make people laugh. So I grew bitter and she grew distant. And now I'm here. I do suppose it would seem odd for most people to hold a funeral in a bar, but I figured it was a two-birds one stone kind of moment. I could both mourn her loss and drink away my pain at the same time.

I looked over my shoulder at the door. My best friend Wayne came walking in.

"Jesus Christ mate, I've been looking for you all day. That was a pretty fucked up voicemail you left me..."

He noticed my black suit.

"Why the fuck are you dressed like a bloody Mormon?"

"I'm here for a funeral."

He looked at me inquisitively.

"For Hannah." I added.

His face turned to shock and bewilderment.

"Hannah fucking died!? And I'm just now hearing about it?"

I shrugged and sipped my fourth old fashioned.....or was it fifth? Who cares?

"The divorce was finalized today. She's dead to me mate. This is to honor her memory before I bury it deep down with everything else I've pissed away in my life."

Wayne was furious.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asked, clearly both stupefied and incensed by my admittedly callous decision making and careless attitude.

I shrugged at my friend, already tuning out the "pull yourself up by the bootstraps" speech I knew he was preparing.

"You'd probably save me a shitload on therapy if you could figure that out," I said smugly.

Wayne bit his tongue. I could see he was seething. He pointed at me with his finger in my face and his voice got low.

"I have been there for you since we was kids. But Hannah is my family too. What you're doing is fucking childish. I never imagined you would stoop this low. You're burning your whole life to the ground mate, and I can't be bothered to put out anymore fires you bellend. You keep going on like this and you're gonna end up completely alone. I hope you get your shit together and shape up before that happens."

I tuned him out again. He scoffed and stormed out of the bar. I rolled my eyes. What a drama queen.

This is what people do. This is how we survive. We compartmentalize. We bury the dead. When things die inside of us we bury them so deep that we don’t have to look at them anymore and remember. I buried my pride, my self respect, my will to live, my hopes, my dreams, my heart, my passion, and my god damned humanity deep in a sea of booze and never looked back. Why should her memory be any different?

I fished my cuban cigar out of my shirt pocket. I'd gotten it on a trip to Cuba when we filmed a scene for my first piece of shit, low budget Tubi TV movie. I was saving it for a special occasion. No time like the present I supposed. The death of one thing is supposed to be the start of another. “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end” or whatever that shitty pop song says. I stumbled to the door and walked outside. As soon as I lit my prized stogie, the sky opened up and drenched everything, cigar included. I couldn't help it, I just laughed like a maniac. People were passing me by on the streets probably wondering what institution I had escaped from, but this shit was funny. Like my dear old dad used to say, "When life gives you lemons, squeeze em' in your open wounds you pussy, cause you're the reason why your mother left."

I looked up at the sky. The funeral was over, and I issued one last proclamation.

"Ok big man upstairs, it's your move. Your lovable, but fucked up main character tried his best and failed. Now I'm at the end of my rope. All hope has been lost. I'm ready for act two when you are. Otherwise we might have to make this funeral a double."

I again laughed maniacally to myself. "Make this a funeral a double, that was a great line. I should write it down."

I stumbled out into the rain with no single fucking iota of a clue as to where I was going, and honestly, I no longer cared.