Thicker Than Blood

T.W. Violence, gore, self harm

It's the third funeral this month. It's getting annoying, having to go to all of my sibling's receptions. Mourning for someone who stole my daddy's love from me. The men and women who disappeared and then showed up dead a few days later.

I stand next to my remaining three siblings in the front pew as the pastor goes on and on about how Grayson is at home and at peace with God up in the great clouds above and all that fake bullshit. My family eats it up as they mop their tears with the back of their hands or black handkerchiefs. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

How can I express grief when I was given nothing all my life, when I was the outcasted sibling? When I wasn't allowed to do the things that the other six could?

I lock my hands together in front of me and squint through the black veil my mother forced me to wear since I had no mourning clothes like the rest of them.

The pastor is finally done preaching and the next part of the reception begins. Grayson's friends take turns saying their speeches in the front of the church where he and his widow were wed only four days ago. I smile at the irony, even though it's not proper.

When family members are saying their speeches, Grayson's wife waits in line with the rest of them. I notice that her eyes aren't red-rimmed and her cheeks aren't tearstained like everyone else. My eyes flow across her body, and I notice the half-concealed bandage wraps on her wrists. Everyone manages grief differently I guess.

Her speech is generic and like everyone else's. She manages to get through it without stopping halfway through, choking on tears, although her voice wavers and breaks throughout.

It's miserable and boring hearing the same thing over and over again with the same blubbering friends and family, the same words and descriptions. Did they even know Grayson? I bet his wife didn't.

She wouldn't be able to keep him reeled in for long, he'd slip up. He always did. I've watched every single break-up happen, all for the same reason. It was hilarious that he never learned.

I discreetly check the time on my watch. 1:47. The service lasts until 1:50. I sigh.

"What?" Sylvia asks. Ugh, another sibling. I look up at her from the corner of my eye, although my mind tells me not to. Tears flow freely down her cheeks and drip onto her chest.

"Nothing." I say innocently. If she suspects anything she doesn't say anything.

Sylvia is a year and a half younger than Grayson, that makes her 29. I'm twelve years younger than her, and not blood related. I wonder when she'll die.

When the reception finally ends I'm relieved and ready to go home and hide in my little hole in the basement. My room.

Once I'm in my car, alone, away from the mourning eye in my mustang with a deep tint, I rip my veil off and take the pins out of my hair. I run my hands through my hair to free it up. It's incredibly hot in the vehicle so I slip off the black blouse I was wearing and leave the white camisole that was under it. I slide into the backseat and change into a pair of bleached holey jeans.

Once I'm out of the churchyard and on the highway a few blocks over, I roll the windows about halfway down and cruise just above highway speeds. I told Brendan (another older sibling) that I'd meet him for coffee after the funeral. He refused to go because as a legal adult, he didn't live with mum and just decided not to go. I'm jealous.

I pull off the highway and onto the side-streets in a littler part of town where the cafe we picked resides.

It was a little quaint place with seating outside right next to the road. It wasn't far from his house, so I knew he would walk. I noticed Brendan standing near the doorway, obviously waiting for me. I pretend to be looking in my bag for something, even though I know everything that's in it.

I run my fingers through my hair again and sling my bag over my shoulder, slamming the door behind me. He looks over, and I grin.

"Mia!" Brendan exclaims when he sees me. I hug him and follow him to a table inside.

"How's my little sister?" He asks when we sit down.

"You mean 'how did the funeral go?'" I say, mocking his voice. He chuckles.

"Yeah." He looks down awkwardly at his hands on the table.

I was never close with my family. I've never been close with anyone. And yeah, that could get me put in jail one day for the things I do, but I don't worry about that until people get suspicious.

Before the silence stretches out too long between us, I give a brief description of the funeral procession and how pathetic everyone looked. He nods his head and adds little commentary. We sip on coffee (him) and tea (me) throughout.

After we've finished our drinks, I offer to drive him home.

"No thank you, I only live a few blocks away." He politely declines. But still, I'm persistent, and he eventually agrees. I smile politely on the inside, but can't wait for the next few days to unfold.

When he gets into the passenger seat, I make sure to lock the doors, he won't be getting out at home.

"Turn here." He says once we reach his street. I fight to hide the smile growing on my face. When I ignore his comment and keep driving he turns to me.

"Where are you going?" He asks. I keep my eyes on the road and ignore him again.

"Somewhere I know you won't come back from, my dear brother."