Based on the writing exercise: Write POV of a dead person at a funeral
Cold; That’s all I can feel in my confined darkness. The crushed velvet lining was supposed to allude a tantalizing warmth I once was. What a joke; a mind trick for me to feel? I can’t move my limbs, barely to reach out and stretch, tipping over my new bed while relatives and by-passers shrill in horror of a being thought long of used movement.
Why can’t I reach out? Why can’t I see? Oh yes, my eyes are obviously sewn together. I’m unable to flutter my eye lids. I’m no longer to refract colors with my cornea then connect them to my brain. I don’t even know if my brain is in my body.
All I know is I can hear; soft murmurs from a distance, the clicks of heels in different directions. Tiny bubbles of chatter can still trail to my ears, something not sewn shut.
A faint sniffle comes close to me; a feminine voice vibrates on my skin, a teardrop befalls on my frozen stiff cheek. I am able to smell the faded salt of the teardrop as it runs down to my flaccid inked hair follicles. Is that my mother? No, it can’t be; she’s been dead for twenty years. Who is it? I don’t remember.
I don’t remember what has happened to me prior to my eternal slumber. Was I a man with great inheritable wealth, due to the black velvet? Perhaps I perished naturally with all my children around me, knowing as I die, they will be rewarded with my riches.
Was I an unfortunate old wretch who suffered from a brain tumor? Bitter and regretful from the core, unbearably focuses on toxic traditions passed down of generations without love. Maybe that’s why I’m unsure if my brain is inside my head.
Whoever I was, all that matters naught. I have nothing to hold onto aside from stiff ironed clothes on my embalmed skin and the crushed velvet around me.
As I ready myself to let go, I feel a hand on mine. It was cold, but not stiff like mine. I’m able to notice the veins in their blood pumping in their muscles and their nerves, enough for me to feel a sensation of warmth.
I feel the shallow breath approach my cheeks and I hear a whisper “ goodbye” to me. Then a pair of lips touch the empty clay mold of my cheeks.
I remember who I was; the memories flood immensely from my childhood to my romance like a ferocious waterfall. My cold heart still attached to my poor excuse of a cadaver, was able to beat one last time. Or maybe, this was what I wanted to feel. For the last time, a rush of pleasure, anger, sadness, pain. Better than…Nothing.
That’s all I wanted before I go was to feel one last time. Was the person’s tear trailing on me again? A beaded tear swells then rolls down to the velvet.
The veined hand has left mine, they’re walking away I can tell. The clicks of their shoes slowly pulls away. It doesn’t matter now. I am delighted this would be my final hour on the hearth.
The creaking sound lowers until there was a shut. Locks are snapped and forever was a silence.
I can let go.