The Death Of A Funeral

I watched how they cried miserably; a smile is yet to be found in the small crowd.

I watched them cry at my funeral. I didn’t want to fake my own death, but I had to because it was the safest option. I’m keeping them safe by removing the root of the problem—me.

I might’ve shed a tear that I could’ve easily blamed on the piercing wind making my eyes water, but I couldn’t hide my true emotions. I wanted to go out there and tell them that everything is fine, that I’m there for them, but I couldn’t.

I was about to turn to leave when I made eye contact with someone. It would’ve been fine if it was a friend or even family, because I could have explained the situation later.

But this was an issue.

The reason why I faked my death was standing in the middle of the crowd at my funeral making eye contact with me. I saw how they moved their coat to the side, revealing a gun in its holster that I knew was loaded.

Then I saw the solemn expression turn into a wicked smile, one that would cause destruction. The words “I got you” are mouthed in my direction.

But it wasn’t a person telling me they supported me; it was a threat that said I wouldn’t be left alive. I was certain that my next funeral would be real.

Then, before I could move, chaos broke out, replacing the sounds of cries with bullets and screams. I watched as the once perfect fake funeral turned into the demise of everyone I loved.

All because of me. I couldn’t do anything about it as I was dragged away by a brutal force, and a hand covered my mouth to silence me.