The aftermath of reality.
Today was the day. Today was the day of Frank’s funeral.
The morning sun arose over the green summer trees of England, yes I am in England.
Due to Frank’s mom wishes, she wanted him to be buried at their home town’s Church, where he was born and according to his mom “Should have stayed and should have NEVER moved to America”.
Not surprisingly she blamed me for Frank’s death; I blame myself so there’s not much more hurt than I’m already feeling now.
But out of her good will she let me go to the funeral in which I had no part in planning.
It’s been a week since Frank’s suicide, a week or pure hatred of me, karma and reality.
A week of thinking back 7 days ago when I could have stopped it, stopped the pain Frank was going through and maybe we would have been alright, maybe we could have been what he had wanted. What I wanted.
I can’t help think of him every moment of every day, that’s normal I guess since I’m “grieving” as my psychiatrist puts it. Oh yeah – I’m insane, did I forget to mention that?
Did I forget to mention that finding my best friend’s corpse draped over his working desk; lathered in blood from the wrists down to the beige carpet had completely shattered my happiness? Did I forget to mention every single night – since, I drank all the pain and sorrow away? No. Why? Because I’m a closed off person, I don’t discuss my feelings with anyone else, apart from Frank.
Ahh, back to reality. What, wait? REALITY? HA! I was better off in my fantasy.
I felt heavy and numb getting out of bed, nothing new there.
I’ve been staying in a motel for 2 days now, ready to be there at the funeral. God, I hate that word.
I looked in the mirror in the attached bathroom, my face was pale; bags under my red, blotchy eyes; basically I looked like I’ve been crying for hours on end. This was also true.
I felt a mess; all I wanted to do was crawl into a ball and die. Yes die.
When I think thoughts like that I thought about Frank, and how he would want me to stay strong and stay alive. And probably move on as well.
I dressed into my black skinnies, white shirt, black tie, black blazer and black converse with only 10minutes left until the funeral started, after all the Church was only 5 minutes down the road and Frank’s mom didn’t want me at her house. After all this time I never knew what Frank’s house looked like, what his room looked like. Wasn’t I a crap friend?
When I walked to the Church, everybody; Frank’s family and who they knew were there: His mom, aunties and uncles, grandpa and granddad, old school friends (in all honesty he only had a few) including one girl. Charlotte.
Everybody was all gathered outside the church doors making small talk and leaving their condolences to the mother. I should be the one grieving greatly like she was, but no, I was the friend, I wasn’t close enough to Frank like she was.
I walked past a few crowds; making my way up to the Church entrance; my head down not daring to show my face, hands in both pockets, but I had a sense of being watched; all eyes boring into my skin.
I looked up when I reached the steps and Frank’s mom; dressed in all black, gazed at me with a sceptical look, a look of disgust and hatred towards me. This was understandable considering I drove her son to suicide.
“Gerard…” I looked up to meet her eyes; they were also red and puffy from crying just like mine, but minus the bags underneath.
“Gerard… I don’t want you here, not at Frank’s funeral, you can’t be here, it’s not right”
I stared at her in disbelief, was she REALLY telling me that I COULDN’T attend my best friend’s funeral? To pay my last respects and say good bye properly. To tell him I loved him.
I took my hands out of my pockets and clenched my fists containing my anger. “Not right?!”
I snapped at her and she was taken back immediately. I wasn’t going to go back now.
“WHAT’S NOT RIGHT IS THIS IS THE FIRST PLACE! FRANK SHOULD BE ALIVE! HE SHOULD BE BACK IN AMERICA WITH ME! WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN TOGETHER!”
I was causing a scene but I didn’t care, in one way or another I was going to let my feelings out, either drinking and starting bar fights or yelling at Frank’s mom.
“NO! HE SHOULD NEVER HAVE GONE TO AMERICA WITH YOU! ALL YOU CAUSED WAS TROUBLE AND FANTASIE’S BREWING IN FRANK’S MIND ! YOU TWO HARDLY KNEW EACHOTHER BUT YET YOU STILL WENT ALONG WITH IT? AND TOGETHER? NO! NO SON OF MINE WAS TO BE GAY!”
She fell to the ground crying, holding her face in her hands.
I shouldn’t put up with this shit, especially hers, Frank was her son and she should have always stuck with him; gay or not. Overall, was she saying that meeting me was the worst mistake in Frank’s life? Was I a Burdon? Maybe a figment of his imagination or mine?
I should never have done this; I should never have met Frank.