Open Your Eyes.

Open your eyes.

I gripped the both sides of the sink, my knuckles turning white.

She can't be dead. She isn't.

The ceremony starts in five minutes. People are already gathering in.

And here I am in the backstage bathroom throwing up my guts.

I stare at the mirror, slowly tilting my head up.

There, a sick looking man just stares back. The rings under his eyes striking out on dull white skin and bleak looking freckles. There's a bruise right in the middle of the bridge of his nose, black, red and purple. His hair is dishevelled as well as darker than he remembers. His tux clinging to his frame, the tie slanted and the buttons loose. Red smeared across his lips.

That man is me.

I turn on the faucet, watching the crimson mixing with clear water as it spirals down the drain.

I cupped up some water and splashed it on my face, cold drenching my skin while it trickled down. I dry my face off with my suit's sleeve, erasing the blood and matting off the water.

I glanced back at myself, my eyes narrowing.

"I hate you," I hissed.

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People are beginning to take their seats now. I recognize a few people in the front row.

Cassidy, wearing a black gown and a tinted veil over her face. Her sea green eyes looking weary and bleak while her husband, Robert, whispered words of comfort and put his arm over her shoulder.

Like that's gonna bring her sister back, jackass.

Clifford, a sort of friend of mine, came as well. He's sitting next to Robert. His suit is a dark grey, looking well cleaned up, considering this guy couldn't give a damn about his appearance most of the time.

Florence also came. Her face looked upset and overwhelmed by sadness. She's wearing a black dress, white gloves and a black rose in her brown hair.

Weird. How do you grieve for a person you've never met?

Charlie's parents are here, sitting on the second bleacher in the front row. Their faces weathered from time, but now chiselled from grief. Her mother won't stop crying.

As people settle down, their voices hushed, the pastor began to speak. Something about her resting in peace and God is watching over her.

Behind the curtain, I visibly scowl.

He's lying. She isn't resting in peace. She isn't watched over by God. If God really was watching, he wouldn't have let this happen.

She was too young. Too smart. And yet too naive at the same time.

"Stop it, stop it, just stop it..!" I whispered under my breath as he continued.

"-may we all grieve for the loss of Charlie Forester. A good friend. A precious daughter-"

"No...no...stop it. You didn't even know her..!" I hissed quietly from behind the blue curtain. I can feel my nails digging into the palms of my hands.

"-and a wonderful sister," the man said,his voice steady as his words echoed through the church.

I froze, feeling like I've been hit in the stomach. My eyes are stinging. My heart is heavy and my chest is way too tight.

I can't breathe and I can't cry.

I can't cry.

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He finished his speech with a few prayers. His prayers are interrupted by quiet sniffles and a few whimpers from Charlie's mother. Does he stops and assures them? As a man of God, surely he cares for his people?

Nope. Just keeps on going with his worthless prayers.

Some prayers bring comfort to folks.

I don't judge. But to folks like me? They never really did.

He's finally done and motions me onto the stage.

I take a deep breath and walk slowly to the front of the stage, replacing the pastor. My figure was bathing in the light above while all eyes were now turned to me.

I can hear a few whispers.

"-he isn't suppose to be up there-"

"-not even related to the family."

"-looks a little young-"

I tense, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. My heart is now rattling against my rib cage.

I cleared my throat, my voice a little rough, "Charlie Forester was someone very dear to me. We weren't siblings by blood, but by a deep bond. And it brings me great...pain..to.." I trailed off.

What's happening?

Sweat beads down my forehead and my knees feel weak.

Stop it.

I continue on, "To have her gone. To have her ripped away from the people she loved and treasured. Even if...even if some of those people didn't deserve her love and time." My tone is still rough, but now it's unsteady.

My vision is blurred at the ends, fogging up almost like glass. The tips of my hands feel numb.

Stop it. Please.

My heart wants out. It's gripping my rib cage like prison bars and won't stop tugging on them, tearing at them. My lungs are getting too clustered and my face feels flushed.

I can't breathe. I can't cry. I can't feel my legs.

I watch as Cassidy looks at me with concern in her puffy eyes beneath the veil.

Clifford's mouthing something at me. Reassurance, maybe? I can't tell.

It's not that I haven't practice this speech. I practiced all the damn time before this day. Even in front of Jack.

I wish Jack was here. Here so he could tell me everything was alright. Here so that he could hug me and comfort me. "It's alright to cry, Hudson," he'd say.

But he isn't here to say that.

The pastor is whispering something to me. I think.

He places a hand on my shoulder.

Don't touch me.

"Are you alright, my son?" He asked.

Do I look alright?

"She's in god's realm. Resting peacefully," he assured me, his hand still resting calmly on my shoulder.

God's realm, my ass.

"Would you like to say a prayer for her now?"

I clenched my fists.

No.

...

I swung my fist, my vision still blurred.

Thud. Gasps. Yells. Heavy breathing.

Two men drag me away from my arms before I can finish the job.

Cassidy's telling me to stop.

Clifford looks horrified.

Florence is sympathetic.

And Jack would probably be disappointed.

They're yelling at me. The men behind me. Their grip forceful as they drag me off stage. Away from the pastor, who's also being dragged away. Not for the reason you might think.

I try and shrug their hands off my shoulders, thrashing as something streams down my face.

I'm crying. Yelling. Screaming.

She didn't deserve to die. She couldn't be dead.

My lungs are begging for air and my heart is still enraged.

My throat burns.

. . .

I̵̢̛͖̩̖͛͝ͅ ̵̧͖̩̹̦̰̲̆̃͑͘͜ḽ̸̢̣̘̭͓̉́̈́͊̇ö̷̢͕͓̘̲̤͇̱v̵̝̙͉̦̘͇̥̈́́͑̄e̸̟̲̼̼͉̜̠͚͛̑́ ̴̗̻́ý̷̨̭̥̲͉̳̦̓̎͑͗̐̂͘͜ơ̶̡͙̻̱̟͔̒ṷ̴͉͕̱̜͗̀͝ͅ,̷̼̭̐͌̃̀́͗̉̕ ̴̞̲͍͕̜͙͋̀͊̈́͐̎̏͑C̶̢̈́̈́͐͐h̴̦̥̻̎̏̌̉̅̏͛͘ä̸̦̬́̈́̏̇̂̌͜r̴͉̲͈̱̞̮̆̽̀ĺ̴̟̳̠̦̱͙͊̔̄͗͂͐̉i̴̧̝̞̺̤̰̩̦̐̇̆̇̄̔ȩ̴̻͎͕̂.̸̮̥̥̖̬̔͌̀͋ ̸̢̰̻̬̩̯̪̗͒̀͋͑͛̈́̐̕ ̸̨̎̓̈́͛̋̒̿͌A̷̞͇̰̓̆͒̕n̴̜̿̄̄͒̚͘d̸̫̪̺̰̟̐̈́̈́̔ͅ ̸̻̅̓̽́͝͠I̷̧̢̳̦̟̾͆̈́̀'̴̤̠̤͆̏̒̑̌͑̒͝m̸̮̓̐̂͑ ̷̺͛̈́s̸̢̈́̀̇̕ơ̴͍͓̜̜̐̀̾͑͋r̵̞̤̹͍͍̠̅̏̓͛̒̅͝͝r̸̡̥̯̘̠̖̼̜̆͌͝͠ÿ̶̖̖̳̜̥̼̜͉̾́̀̕ ̵̡̣͖̪̰̔I̷̝̅̌̿͋̌ ̴̼̭̽̽̓̑̿̽̒͛ŕ̴͖̗͈͓̈́̈́̋̑ų̴̧͕͚͙͎̥̆̂̊ì̸̧͕͓̳̻̪̘͐́̌̇̾̿͜n̷̜͔̙̩̠̞̳̑̊̏̆̚ė̵̤̤͜d̵̨͔͉̜̫̜̽̅͋́̀̂ ̷̟̲͇̓ͅe̵͉͐̉̈̽͑v̴̬̰̊̔͊͘ḙ̷̞̽̑̈́r̶̗̣̣̄͊̈ý̵͓͆͝t̶͙͓̠̼̞̟̦̐̂̍͛͠h̵̡͖̦̻͍̄̋͑̆̽̌i̵̮̱͂̈̅͑n̶̯͓̈́̏͂͒̈́́̇g̵̝̟̃͛͌.̵̳̲̳̭̇̈́ ̸̻̲̅̾͊́̈́̒͘ ̶̤͐̔̐͋͌͆͝E̷͌̕͜v̸̭̲̳̀̊̄͜͠e̶̘̙̦̱͐̃̆͌̕̚͝n̶̡̠͎̮̂̈́̂̇͂͒͝ ̵͖͈̙̗͈̖̍͆͝y̶̢̹͚͇̯͘o̸̢͋̑͗̎͐͐̃͝ǘ̷͍͓̭̼͔̠̈́̐̐̎͝r̸̖̞̩̱̆̊͗ ̸͖̲͙͈̦͈̀̿́͛͊̎́̑o̷̡̬͍̞̰͔͚͆̽̽̅̆̔͝w̸̰̲̖̲͂̊͛̈͛̒͂̉ń̷̡̙̬͖͎͖̎ͅ ̸̥͎̎͒̑̏̍̓͝f̴̩̦̭̬̳̣̜̗͒͑̑̎͋ư̴̪̏̐́̽̍͑ń̷̨̜͓̟͓͉̠͎͗͛͆̓̕e̴͓̔͋r̵̳͍͇̿͌͐͝a̷̻͌͑̈́̎̑̚l̶̙̅́͝͠.̸̳̘̯̝̹̼͓́̐͋̉̅͝͠

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(Gift for @creationandcalamityau . Inspired by our recent rp. @thelocalmoth 's Jack is mentioned as well)