At The Podium

A person approached the podium. Long dirty blonde hair cloaking their pathetically tear soaked eyes. A friend of the deceased, no doubt. We were not a friend of the deceased. We were a family of it.

Some people mistake those two for the same thing but in reality our relationship, beyond the ties of blood, with the corpse in its casket was merely one of indifference. No tears would fall for it from our eyes. Though we did feel incredibly divine in our black velvet garment, leather gloves, knee high boots and full-length jacket. We stroked our thigh. It felt good.

The dirty blonde spoke tragically, which may be befitting for the occasion. They made us morn the spoken word with every word they chocked fourth, impassioned by their public misery. We patted our thigh again. It still felt good.

Finally the person cut themselves off. The speech ceased and they began to leave the podium in an awkward manner. We saw someone pat them on the back as they took their seat. Though there was not much time for us to dwell on them. A violinist began to play. The gathered stood in the small chapel before moving to the front for an inspection of the corpse. We had no interest in the deceased and so we made for the door. Someone knocked us on the way out and our velvet garment rubbed against our thigh. The feeling was not unpleasant.

Outside the air was still and humid. Uncomfortable would be an appropriate word. The sky was white with clouds in a way that implied it should be cold. The weather taunted us as always. It was a good day for a funeral, but not a good day to die. We walked down the path to the gate and pulled out a small hand rifle. We dropped it down between our legs, pulled back some gadgets and let the small pellet bullet defy gravity. Blood and gravel rubbed against our thigh. It stung slightly.