John sits unnoticed in a hard leather armchair at the funeral parlour. An open coffin holds the body of a 20-year-old boy. John’s grief mounts as he studies the small group of people wailing, throwing their heads back and stretching their hands high. It reminds him of the television news from Gaza.
He sees his mum, his dad, his only surviving grandma, clinging to each other. His mum, the life and soul of every party, is pale and drawn. She hasn’t slept since it happened.
The room is full of flowers and he worries about his mum’s hay fever. There are still flowers, photographs, and cuddly toys at the scene, bedraggled by the rain, where they will stay until the council road sweepers toss them in their van.
There’s an infernal din in the room; a hum that starts slowly and quietly, then increases in strength until John covers his ears and rocks like a baby. ‘Make it stop, please make it stop,’ he calls to his mum, but she can’t hear. John drags himself from the chair and goes to his family, trying not to look at the dead boy.
He stands in front of his mum; so close he smells her body odour and stinking breath. ‘Mum,’ he cries, and great rivers of tears gush down his cheeks. He reaches to embrace his mum, but he can’t hold her.
‘Mum!’ he sobs, ‘Mum. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I only jumped off that bridge for a laugh.’
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 