Faces Of A Funeral.

• Blake Stanbridge, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2012

Light flickered through the stained-glass windows, like countless hands reaching towards the coffin. The coffin was unnaturally small, a teenager’s final resting place. Images were placed all around, detailing a colourful life, a life well loved, a life cut short. Familiar faces fill the room, with tears and sorrow. The final farewell is about to proceed. The priest stands in the light; arms wide open, he begins the procession.

A middle-aged woman sits in the front row; her eyes are aged and teary. A plain black dress silhouettes her delicate condition, whilst her trembling hands cling to what she has left, a fourteen-year-old teddy bear. She looks at the coffin and the floodgates, which were holding back her tears, release the droplets. She is distant; nobody can awaken her from this nightmare. She feels alone and distraught, but no emotion fills her heart more so, than that of hate. Hatred for him.

He sits on the other side of the church. His face blank. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. His mind is numb, guilt and regret eat away at what sanity he has left. He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t move. That is his boy and it is also his fault. The priest begins a prayer, but he isn’t listening, he can’t. Images from that night fill what is left of his mind. A laughing boy, the speedo on 90km/per hour and two huge headlights coming straight at them. He jumps back to reality. A candle is lit above the coffin. The glow reminds him so much of the light they saw and now he will witness the candle burn out, just like his boy’s life did.

An elderly woman sits in front of a girl with ginger plaited hair. She is not crying or making any noise at all; the only sound being heard is coming from her transportable ventilator. She is wise and unlike the others understands death. She comprehends that death is only natural and however upsetting it may be, it is bound to happen to all of us. She obtains this knowledge for after all, death is a friend, a close companion; she has been to so many funerals.

A teenage girl, with auburn hair sits three rows back from the front, on the right side of the church. She too has regret. She liked the boy. He made her smile, made her blush, made her heart skip a beat, but he didn’t know. ‘If only’, seems to fill her mind.

The priest ends the funeral with a simple prayer. Short, clear and meaningful. The light passes the stainless church windows as family members, friends and peers disperse. Only a few remain, those few not willing to let go.