Songs for the Dead

A true story that just needed to be written down.

Micah steps up to the microphone swaying to the music playing in his head. His pouty lips purse for a moment then he looks up and smiles. His smiles always feel like the first day of spring after a long winter, bright and glorious, but I know the smile isn’t for me. I stop my thoughts before they go down part of the road quite well traveled. The Crowd is getting impatient waiting for him to start but the regulars like me stay silent knowing it’s just part of the ritual. Golden turn toward the stage and acknowledges Micah. That’s when the real music starts. His voice is like liquid honey, it sends shivers up and down my spine every time I hear him sing, which isn’t often now that he has moved. Another not so happy thought. When Micah left the rest of the group has sort of drifted apart. We all love each other unconditionally but … Micah was our heart. His voice floats over the crowd and I know each person feels as of he is singing just to him or her, of course I also have the bitter gift of knowing that he is only really singing for one person. The music gets darker almost like he was following my mood. He ends the song, letting it trail off never to return. You never get to hear the end of the song, ever. He just doesn’t sing them. And it’s not like he doesn’t write them, I know for a fact he does, but somewhere in all of the emotions when he sings…. He told me once that for him the ends of things, books, relationships, even days were private. That you had to decide how things ended for yourself. It wasn’t pre-made for you. That is the kind of confusing stuff that came out of Micah’s mouth when Golden wasn’t there to translate for the rest of the world. Micah and Golden were having a conversation with their eyes, one of the many couples’ things that irritate the hell out of me. Jargon noticed and he smiled in what I hope was sympathy not invitation. He had a harder time getting a date than I did and if we hadn’t felt more like siblings than anything else I would have dated him myself. That would have really stuck in my parent’s craw, dating a guy more than four years my senior; I could see their shocked faces now. They try so hard to keep me safe and happy, but only so long as I fit into this little box I’m sure they have labeled daughter. It might as well be a coffin because the only way I’ll fit their expectations is to die. We went back to Mil’s place. When I was younger I had thought they were so lucky to have an apartment to themselves. Their parents were always gone. I am a whole lot wiser now and I saw the apartment as what it was, abandonment. I wished I could dredge up appropriate rage at the situation but it’s damn hard to rage at the dead when you don’t believe in an afterlife. The gang played videogames until sunrise, then, mostly drunk,they slept where they fell. Rose and I were the last to sleep and the only two remotely sober. Me because I’m so far under aged that it’s not even funny and Rose because she drew the short straw and was now the designated driver; cleaner; cook; clothing finder, and hangover remedy maker. The morning would be as close to hell as possible on earth for the rest of them, so I straightened the many CD’s strewn across the floor. I almost cried when I found the shattered picture on the floor. I looked at the mirror and was surprised to see the difference in the face I saw there. Funny what a difference a few months can make. Rose saw the look I was giving my reflection and muttered “Need a muzzle for that damn guilt beast.” I laughed until I cried and cried myself to sleep. That was the only thing she could have said to me that night of all nights that would have meant anything. It had been Horatio’s catch phrase, his companion, that guilt beast. The guilt beast was the only thing Horatio said goodbye to before he died two years ago. We all hated to remember that night, but we do it every year. It’s the day we remember our dead. If we don’t who will? We do it to remind ourselves not to tempt the powers of worse, because sadly… worse is always happy to oblige.It’s my least favorite night of all 365. Happy F*****g Birthday to me.

Reviews

[Alexander]

This is extremely moving, I only wish I understood it! I like "We all love each other unconditionally but...Micah was our heart." and I love the ending lines, but didn't feel like all was revealed. Also, I am of the opinion that paragraph form would make this much easier to read, and therefore all the cooler. Good write.
Z

[nostal]

Powerful.

[Kaitlin W. Blaylock]

Powerful, emotive, and well written. Keep up the good work.

[Adela Muresan]

Kowel.
This is deffinetly well penned ---> you got style "I'm so far under aged that it's not even funny and Rose because she drew the short straw and was now the designated driver; cleaner; cook; clothing finder, and hangover remedy maker" " We do it to remind ourselves not to tempt the powers of worse, because sadly� worse is always happy to oblige. "

((((CHEERZ))))

A.M.

[Interrupting Dawn]

This is great! I really like it. You used your words very well. Yeah, there were a few errors. I agree though, try to put in some paragraphs. I think you wrote a great story but I don't really understand the end, it seemed incomplete.

[Interrupting Dawn]

This is great! I really like it. You used your words very well. Yeah, there were a few errors. I agree though, try to put in some paragraphs. I think you wrote a great story but I don't really understand the end, it seemed incomplete.

[Annalisa]

This was a lovely little vingette (sp? spell check doesn't like the word so I can't tell >