Creative Writing

The funeral was.. well, a funeral. It was all (and perhaps more) that she had expected. It reduced her to tears. It moved her to laughter. Throughout the whole, her hands moved. Never still, they twisted within themselves, they tore the damp tissue in them to shreds. They vaguely re-applied make-up to water streaked eyes and cheeks. They fidgeted with her overlong hair. They fretted at the hem of her skirt. They were never stilled.
Until, for four or five seconds, they paused, hung by her sides and rested.
Whilst the casket was lowered.
Then they moved, a little twitch of her fingers and they (equipped with another ever-present hanky) were at her nose.

Looking at her, you would see nothing remarkable. She merely was. At that time there was nothing to distinguish her. Nothing that could mark her out as special, nothing to make her more important or better than the person lying in the casket. That was what struck her, her mortality. The unfairness of life. She would never know why she had escaped the hangman's noose and the other hadn't. Nothing in her being would allow her to forget the cruel hand that nature had dealt her friend, and the restlessness in her hands was only one outlet, one physical sign of her inner turmoil.

She was unable to resolve her grief. She could not understand what was happening and she couldn't resolve the conflicts within her until she understood. The problem was that she would never understand. There would never be any resolution of that kind, it was inexplicable; it was the destructive forces of nature. Of whatever she believed in. She didn't know.

The aftermath of the funeral was harder to bear. It was unnatural, the jollity and speed, the colours and noises of the world astounded her, how could they be so brash, heartless? She found functioning impossible. She couldn't connect. Her only refuge was in her room. In the memories and pictures, the collages and photos, the posters and momentoes that cluttered her walls. Within these four walls she found solace. She found, within herself, some more questions and realised she didn't need to know all the answers. Safe within the crowded walls, surrounded by the old comfortingness of her junk she was at peace.

Her peace didn't mean she was immune to surprises, to the shocks that her own room, her sanctuary, could spring on her. It was about a week after the funeral, after she found some quiet in herself, that she saw it. As she was sitting, reading a book, she glanced up. There, on the wall, almost obscured by a badly pinned poster, she saw, as if for the first time, the picture. The paper was unassuming, an the line drawing on it, more so. However they captivated her attention. Her eyes were drawn to it and she couldn't pull them away. The memories came flooding back and she reached out and pulled it from the wall. The Blu-Tack keeping it there gave it up reluctantly, and her fingers picked it off gently, taking the utmost care with the small picture. She unfurled her legs from beneath her and walked from her bed to the centre of the room. She placed the picture on the floor, searched her overlarge CD collection for a CD and put it on.

Fifty minutes later, she entwined her fingers sombrely, without thinking. It had become a matter of habit. The CD that was playing to itself quietly in the background finished. She barely noticed. The words and melodies hadn't been registering for the past few tracks anyway. Her left hand, with its scabby, bitten, unvarnished nails detached itself from the fingers of the right and reached tentatively for the piece of paper containing the line drawing, simplistic in style and composition, which rested by her left knee. It had taken her this long to work up the courage and work past her fears to actually look at the picture again. She gazed at the picture. Her blonde hair fell from behind her ear, some catching in the many earrings adorning her ears, and obscured her vision.
Not that it mattered. The picture, rustic though it was, had embedded itself in her mind. A single tear slid silently down her cheek and dampened her collar.

Normally, somethinng so small and insignificant wouldn't have the power that this scrap of paper seemed to hold over her. But this was different. This was her last momento. This was the last thing her friend had ever made for her. It was her monster. The picture wasn't flattering. It wasn't startling. It could never be called a Masterpiece, except in her head. It was imbued with celestial beauty simply because of the hands which had composed it. White hands that now rested. Forever.

Her fingers, thick and strong, curled reflexively as a multitude of thoughts scrambled through her mind. The paper scrumpled. Her hands formed angry fists on her knees, rubbing at the denim as she thought about the unfairness of life. Nature seemed to be conspiring against her, her mind cursed it, her hands showing her rage.

A sound from downstairs interrupted her reverie, she glanced at her hand and realised what she had done. It was ruined. Irreversably. The picture was crumpled and smushed, and her vain efforts to to smooth it out were to no avail. It was done. The tears followed the track forged by the first one. Faster. Her lap, cradling the ruined picture, became damp from the rain of tears.
The ink began to run.