Two days passed before my mother came to my apartment. The noise she made at the sight of my decomposing corpse caked in dark, dry blood couldn’t be described as a scream; that word doesn’t do it justice. This noise was unholy. It sounded as if something was being ripped from her body. Very slowly.
The investigation was quick. The police confirmed that I committed suicide. My mother wanted an open casket funeral, so my body wore a hat to cover the sizable hole in the right side of my head. People walked by my corpse, the rotting stench of it somehow covered up. Some of them cried; I wondered if they meant it. My mother was there, as were my aunts and uncles. Cousins I couldn’t even remember sobbed into handkerchiefs as if they would really miss me. My friend Alisa came. She didn’t talk much. Some of my coworkers were there. My ex-boyfriend comforted my mother while that whore of his stood in the back, trying not to look bored.
When they dropped my body in the ground, my mother wailed and clung to her brother, asking God why he took her family and left her. At the reception, everyone asked the same question: Why did she do it? Why didn’t she tell us she was unhappy?
"It’s a good funeral."
"Half the people in this room don’t even care I’m gone."
"You’re so fucking pessimistic."
"Sorry. I’m trying to say you’re missing the point."
"That the other half do."
"Say it without the attitude."
It had been a long time since I giggled. I wasn’t used to them anymore; they tasted funny to my unpracticed lips, and they sounded even funnier to my unaccustomed ears, weak as they were. Dad laughed with me, his deep growl of a laugh pleasant to hear.
"Can we go now, daddy?"
"Sure, sweetie. Just..."
"...Why did you do it?"
"I missed you." My smile didn't fool him.
"You can tell me when you're ready. Wanna go?"
Suddenly, a shot rang out that no one could hear. He was right. It was a good funeral.