Rosie's Thorns 🥀|18+|🥀

11 | Banana Bread

《¤ Rosie ¤》

Roses and lilies blanketed the body of the closed casket. Reds, whites, and pale pinks bloomed across the cherry wood beautifully, carrying its scent through the stuffy room as guests blubbered quietly amongst themselves.

I've heard so many condolences and heartfelt words about my father today, it's nauseating.

As if they really knew him.

It had to be a closed casket. I was told the body was too gory to be on display. He suffered unimaginable torture, so violent I haven't been able to get his men to crack as to what really happened. Not much was left of my father. I'd overheard my mother talking to his wife. They said something along the lines of, "he could only be identified by his dental records".

Father was a cruel man and has done vile things, but I didn't know if he deserved the ending he got. I mean, did anyone deserve to go that way?

I whisper a thank you as another stranger offers their regards and a platter of food. So much food. I glance towards the table his wife had set up. Plates, plastic containers, and trays of food are now being stacked on top of each other.

All for a dead man.

He's dead. It's strange. It doesn't feel real. He couldn't be dead. Nothing could kill him. It just didn't seem possible. It's like saying the terminator is dead. The terminator always pops up again later for another sequel. I think I'll have a heart attack if he pops back up though.

If he's dead, then why do I still feel him breathing down my neck? His rules and demands still weigh heavy on my chest. If he was dead, wouldn't the weight disappear? Wouldn't I feel free? Wouldn't the burden of his name be lifted?

Instead the weight has grown heavier.

A lump lodges itself in my throat as I absent-mindedly wrap a frayed thread around my finger from the seam of my black sundress. I watch my index finger tip turn red as the thread cuts off circulation, waiting until it stings before letting go. I do this a few times to distract myself from the blubbering behind me.

Probably another mistress. Or it could be a child he actually acted like a father towards...

Ha! He'd actually have to care.

I don't even know how to feel about his death. A part of me is anxious, as if he's about to walk through the double doors of the funeral home and announce it was just a test. And another part of me wants to cry. I couldn't tell if it was because I just lost my father or if it was because I was mourning the father I wish he was.

I'm an idiot for holding out hope that a small part of him cared about me when he was alive.

That sounds wrong. I shouldn't think or talk ill of the dead, let alone about my father. I need to keep my emotions in check.

I need to act the part, no matter my feelings towards the situation.

I let the tears flow and trickle down my cheeks. It's a funeral. How would it look if his daughter didn't cry? They didn't need to know whether it was from sorrow or resentment. They didn't need to know I could cry on command.

It's all a part of upholding his image.

I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to stand before everyone and give a speech filled with lies. Yet, I did it. Tearfully, I might add. Now that the funeral is coming to an end, I'm exhausted. I just want to go home and get out of the spotlight.