Chapter 1 - Mourning

April 5th

 

10 years 2 months and 3 days after.

 

Max.

 

He remembered the moment he'd received the news. Fresh still, unlike the wilted flowers he'd forgotten to water for three weeks, sitting idly in the kitchen. As he stared down at two pairs of shoes on the morning of the funeral, memories of practice flood back into the front of his mind, dread sinking like a stone in his stomach. A part of his mind told him to just not go, crawl back under the covers and pretend he was still twelve, young, innocent and fresh-faced. It was at thirteen when everything went wrong. The shoes, which were now blurring into one image, sat patiently as they awaited his decision. Black or brown? Black would be more fitting for a funeral situation, but they seemed to say 'complete despair' or 'I've given up all hope'. He wasn't there just yet. Was he? Brown consoled the mother and apologised for her loss, wished there was something he could've done to prevent this detestable situation. Black ignored her, willed her away. Shoving on his trainers, he threw them both on the back seat. He stepped back inside to take a final look in the mirror - something he'd grown to live with.  'Appearances are everything,' Scott's voice resonated in his ears, like a gentle breeze which was easily ignored until it nipped at your skin. He looked at himself. Black hair sat messy on his head, with bright blue eyes, the ones that'd he'd become known for, a little duller than most days. The black Ralph Lauren two piece sat tidily over a matching shirt - a suit his stylist had picked out for him. He chuckled without mirth. He had his stylist pick out his funeral wear. Although his appearance was presentable, it was safe to say: He was undoubtedly a mess. If it weren't for the phone call from his nutritionist that morning, it was unlikely he'd even have gotten out of bed. It'd taken over an hour for him to convince his manager that he was going to drive himself there. Upon checking his watch, it suddenly dawned on him, he was going to be incredibly late if he didn't leave that second. Loosening his tie, he grabbed the bunch of flowers his manager had bought for him to give to the mother and shut the door behind him.

 

Rose.

 

She barely did anything to get ready. Dabble on a bit of lipstick, ruffle the hair to a somewhat presentable state, and pluck the black clothes from the hangers in the wardrobes. On second thought, she grappled her short brunette mane into a hairband and tied it out of her face. Although a fluffy unkempt fringe sat across her forehead and strands outlined her thing, olive-skinned face. She looked at herself. She saw her reflection in the smashed glass and snorted. She was barely in a fit state to show herself to the outside world, let alone attend a funeral - But she was set on going. To pay her respects. To apologise to the mother for her loss. To remember a friendship that had once been strong. Grabbing her faux-leather jacket - with the waterfall front - she tugged the rucksack containing her most sensible black heels over her shoulders and locked the door of her crummy apartment. She often wondered what the point was, the point in locking the door. It was just as likely to get broken into on this side of town than if she hadn't locked it. Windows were perfectly good entrances once smashed, as long as you covered the shards with a blanket or a jacket you were set to go. Not like anyone in this neighbourhood would question it. They were all as rough as each other around her. She kicked the 'Urgent' letters out of the way of her crummy excuse for a doormat. Pulling up her collar and burying her hands deep into the shallow pockets of her jacket, she set off for the bus and left the 'Eviction Notice' far behind her.

 

Isaac.

 

He'd been tapping away at the keys of his computer when he'd finally noticed the time. He cursed and threw the handle over in the shower, to be drenched with freezing cold water. It gushed from the shower head and, shivering, he managed to switch it off again before he caught frostbite. He grumbled his way over to the boiler and checked the hot water was on. Pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing with annoyance, he turned the dial to 'on'. The boiler rumbled to life and a countdown flashed on screen, to let him know when the water would be hot. His patience lasted seven out of the fifteen minutes before he decided to brave it. Trickles of Luke-warm water fell from the head before he was confident enough to turn it to full blast. He drew pictures in the condensation on the glass. Rinsing the soap from his body and washing the shampoo from his hair, he jumped out the cubicle and pulled the towel around him. The clothes he'd led out the night before were now crumpled on the floor besides his bed, where he'd accidently kicked them off during a particularly fitful sleep last night. Nightmares hounded his dreams and left him in a hot sweat at four am - the bags under his eyes evident of this much.  Since then he'd managed to solve twelve Rubik cubes, finish that one thousand piece jigsaw puzzle he started two days ago and break the kitchen tap. Of course, he did all this in the time he should've used to get ready. But there he was, four minutes to spare until the taxi arrived and he stood in the bathroom, wiping away the condensation on the mirror. He looked at himself. He was a compilation of black eyes, black hair, under-eye bruising and freckles. But what he looked like wasn't important. Today was the day of his best friend's funeral. He felt empty inside - like nothing could ever fill the hole she left. He'd see her mother and say sorry for the loss, let her know how sad he was and then he'd sit back and listen to minister read an extract and then he'd go and read his piece. Let them know how bad he hurt and how much love was following her into the grave. He let his eyelids drop and he gripped the sink bowl. There was a horn honked outside, it became insistent and running the sleeve of his suit across his eyes he gasped for air, to steady himself. Time to get today over with. He glanced back at the computer set up, still flickering with life. He figured he should probably have turned it off. He should probably have done a lot of things. And with that final thought, he checked his phone was in his pocket, his speech in the left and headed out, leaving the computers still whirring behind him.

 

Hana.

 

Her fingers were already wrapped around the door handle, so why couldn't she open it? It was a simple downward motion and it would 'click' and she'd be free to walk out, out into the street. She'd done it thousands of times before, so why not now? Why, on the day she really needed to, could she not open the god forsaken door? She let out a cry in her frustration. In the corner of her eye, she could see herself in the mirror. She could see the red stain on the corner of her lips, smudged and she turned on her heel and tried to remove it. Pulling a hanky from her handbag she carefully tried to wipe away the stain, whilst avoiding the rest of her delicately done make-up. She rubbed at the skin but the stain was adamant, it refused to budge and she groaned. "Come on, come on!" She whispered, irritably. She didn't have the time for this and god forbid she was late for her old friend's funeral. Her hand fell away from her face and perfectly blue eyes scanned her own absent face. She didn't think she'd be attending a friends funeral at twenty-two years old, baring in mind, said friend was only a year older than she was. But then again, they hadn't talked in about ten years, she'd heard that Georgia and Isaac had kept in touch, but the rest went their separate ways and kept their own ways. A thought crept across her mind. She assumed they'd all be going. It would be the first time in a very long time she'd see any of them for more than a passing moment on the street - and even then, those glances were rare as is. Suddenly a pair of arms wrapped around her waist and she felt a chest press against her back. Lips pressed to her jaw.

"You look beautiful," He told her in a light lulling breath.

"I'm going to a funeral." She whispered. He considered that for a moment and then spun her in his arms. He looked at her, though his eyes merely saw. She looked up to him, like he was something wise.

"But you do look beautiful."

She dabbled her eyes with her fingers and nodded, stuffing her hanky back into her handbag. She checked one last time her appearance in the mirror and took a deep breath. "Okay, I'm ready."

"You sure you don't want me to come?" Her husband enquired, leaning against the doorframe, lines of age creased with concern. She was already making her way down the maculate garden path, which had been tended by the gardeners.

"No, I'll be fine. You need to look after Maddison anyway," She called back to the man. "Her mother's coming at two to pick her up. Make sure she's ready." She opened the door of the waiting car, a black estate paid for by her filthy rich husband. She carried on, ticking stuff off on her fingers. "You need to pack her bags and make sure she'd brushed her teeth. Oh and don't let her go out without a jumper, it's freezing." The man was already walking towards her, rolling his eyes like he usually did when she got carried away. She slipped into the back seat and he held the door after her.

"Can you do all that?" She asked.

"I think I can manage." He nodded and pushed the door shut, with a satisfying, yet gentle, slam. She rolled down the window, blond strands catching the breeze and leaned out.

"Can I manage?"

He knelt down. "I'm sure you'll be fine honey," He pressed a final kiss to her lips and stood again, brushing down the knees of his jeans. He slapped his hand against the roof of the vehicle and the driver took the clutch off.

"Just..." She was stalling. "Don't forget to her jumper. Okay?"

"Okay."

And with that, the car pulled away from the house and headed for the funeral service, leaving her husband and his daughter and the life she had built for herself, far behind her. 

Author's Note

These are merely drafts, please let me know what you think.