The day was bleak. The clouds loomed over Dublin, and the sun wasn't even trying to poke through them. The streets were moist from an early rain. A brisk wind swept through the city, bringing autumn with it. It felt like the day hell turned cold.
Patrick Bronte opened the tall doors of the old cathedral, and slowly walked inside to a sea of black. His hand in his pocket gripped the wet handkerchief, and his hands felt clammy. Every eye stared at him as he made his way down the center isle. It reminded him of his first piano recital. He remembered the place was silent and they all watched him walk up to the piano, waiting for the boy to play them something that would probably not be very good but made the parents behind the video cameras smile.
Silence
He stared at the eight foot box covered in flowers, the same lump that had been in his throat for the last four and a half days just got bigger, it felt almost like the same lump you get when your sick, except this one, was painful. his hand clenched the handky even tighter. The world seemed to move by him so slowly, like he was, there, at that moment, the center of the universe. His shiny black shoes felt like bricks on his feet, the pounding head ache was now beating against his skull, and he barely noticed the tears filing his eyes and falling down to the floor in front of him. He felt the sorrow of the visitors in the pews slam into him like a car hitting a brick wall and shattering into a million tiny pieces. He crept closer to the casket, rubbing his fingertips against his palm, a nervous habit. His dry tongue licked at his dry lips, but didn't make a difference, he felt like he had to gasp for air.
He glanced over at his son sitting in the front pew. His small hands were folded together in his lap. His legs hung over the pew and dangled there, motionless. His soft face seemed pale in the black suit he was wearing, he looked lifeless. More tears. More palm rubbing. More clenching.
Patrick stood in front of the casket, eyes blurry from tears. He stroked the polished wood and barely made out the picture in front of him. His wife was beautiful. He remember the first time he had seen her. He remembered the black dress with rhinestones at the chest, her hair was up, and her face shone like a Christmas tree in the middle of December.
He barely noticed the soft, depressing piano music playing in the background, he then began to hate the piano, began to hate music. Began to hate life.
She had been murdered. Mutilated. Her soft blonde hair had been stained with blood, and her face was too disfigured, to have the casket open. He was glad for that. He never understood how people could restore a dead persons face. He wanted people to remember his wife for the beautiful, life-loving woman she was.
He stood by the casket, hands pressed against it, crying, remembering the moments that he shared with her for half of his adult life. He remembered the dances they shared. He remembered her soft lips pressed against his. He remember the food they loved, and the places they’d been. Nothing in life was fair. People slowly left the church, until it was just himself, his best friend, Jason, and his son.
He ran his fingertips over the picture, leaving wet streaks from tears. He turned, grabbed his son by the hand and walked out of the church, into a big gust of wind, which made his dry eyes sting. His best friend, Jason, departed with out saying a word. It was over.