The Funeral: 5 Minute Freewrite Prompt: Black

Everyone was dressed in black. I stared down at my own black clothing, my huge pregnant belly sitting in my view. Everyone was so concerned about me, about the baby, but what did it matter.

I didn't want to be there. I hate funerals. I hate all of the fake people pretending to care. Maybe if you had cared even a little, then we wouldn't all be here, would we?

I was still angry that the preacher had asked us all what he was like, and then poo pooed everything I said, because of course a preacher can't say that 'he wanted to be thought of as a bad ass' and no, Mr.s Preacherman, you CAN'T change the wording to 'be a bad... um... dude' and have it still mean the same fucking thing.

Here I was, standing, or rather sitting in the 'receiving line' like I'm at some joyous celebration. Like I'm not there to deal with the fact that we're putting my little brother in the ground. Like any of you assholes cared about him EVER.

This bitch here, trying to talk to me. Why won't she go AWAY? I look down further. Tears falling down my chin, I watch the droplets fall and disappear in the fabric of my black dress. This woman, this old woman from some church we used to go to is STILL talking to me about God. God's plan, god's love... whatever. I am ignoring her.

She actually tries to physically force my chin up to look her in the eyes. I wrench my face out of her hands and stare into her eyes. All the rage, hurt, grief and just disappointment in her, in them, in ALL OF THESE PEOPLE just flies from my eyes into her.

I see her visibly flinch and it makes me feel better. Or at least less... powerless. For a second... and then I hear my mom's gut wrenching sobbing and I realize that all the power I have isn't going to bring him back.

Thanks again to @mariannewest for the amazing challenge that she puts so much into every single day!

Today's Prompt: black
Set your timer for 5 minutes
Start writing
Use the hashtag #freewrite
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