Necrosol Brown

At the funeral, you let her wipe her tear-streaked cheeks on your red wool sweater. When she moves away, the wet spots she leaves in her wake are no longer warm with body heat but searing cold—cold enough that your skin shrinks away from the wool.

Celine had never touched you like this, had never leaned into you like you were the only thing tying her to reality. You two had lived in two distinct worlds, always in orbit, but never colliding. She was magnetic though alien, beautiful but distant, and you had always been attracted to her like a massive, ugly, space rock in the Earth’s orbit.

You lead her away from the casket to a pew near the church doors, far, far away from where the body lay gray, sunken and charred. She leans her head on your shoulder, and you marvel at how she slots perfectly into the crook of your neck, like she was always meant to fit there.

“Benji?” Celine looks up into your brown eyes, her own blue glistening glossy red. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course. I had to make sure you were okay.”

“I just—” she chokes back a sob. “I don’t believe she’s really gone.”

You brush a loose strand of long brown hair away from her face. You’re surprised she lets you. “Hey. It’s gonna be okay. She was your best friend. It’ll take time to process.”

She cries and slumps back into your arms. She’s shaking and trying to hold herself together to save face. She’s barren, beaten and bent, but you find her beautiful in the way she breaks.

You just sit there, purposefully combing your fingers through her tangled hair.

The sun is bright. Beams split into a chroma of greens, blues, and purples through the stained glass inscribed with an angel. The splendid sight is tainted by the black of the attendees, none of which you particularly know or bothered to speak to. There aren’t many, just a few old people and even fewer young ones—she lived a sad and lonely life, you suppose. Their quiet sobs are quite disturbing.

When they carry the body away, Celine tears her hand from yours, lurching forward as if she was going to stupidly intervene. You quickly latch back onto her before she embarrasses herself in front of the whole procession.

“Fuck you!” Celine yells at the sky. Her voice, previously tender, now rips violently from her larynx. “Fuck you.”

You kneel down in front of her, clutching her hands. “Celine—Celine. Calm down. It’s okay.”

And she looks at you like she used to—eyes wide, brows furrowed, jaw protruding nothing but leave me alone—like you were a stranger.

“She shouldn’t be cremated.” Celine looks at you with a furious intensity. “It’s like laughing in her face—she died in a fire, and now they want to burn all that’s left of her? It feels so wrong. It is wrong. You can see that, right, Benji?”

She looks up at you, eyes brimming with tears.

“Yeah.” You nod quickly, trying to soothe her with your invasive touch. You run your calloused hands along her cheek, daring to wipe the tears from her face. “But, Celine, that’s just how the Chinese handle the dead. No matter how wrong, it’s still their tradition. It’s really not our business to judge.”

A small shadow looms over where two of you crouch on the pavement. “Celine, my dear, come with me.” Ms. Wang—a woman so short she looks ridiculous standing next to you, even when you slouch—helps Celine to her feet and leads her back into the church. Her jewelry clinks loudly as she does so.

Standing back up, you run your hands through your dirty blond hair, relieved that Ms. Wang is dealing with the mess that is Celine.

“Benjamin.” A hand on your shoulder. You turn to find Mr. Wang, nodding at you with something akin to kindness, though you really couldn’t be sure. You stiffen at his unfamiliar touch.

“Mr. Wang.” You nod back. Like his wife, he stands beneath you in a black suit and tie. You can see the spot where his hair is combed over the balding patch.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.” You force yourself to make eye contact, vision flickering quickly away from the way his eyes sink into his skin, drooping heavily under bags of grief.

“I just want to thank you for taking time off from school to come. I know it must be hard, especially since you were the one who found my daughter that day.”

You grind your perfect white teeth together. “Of course.”

“Were you two close?”

“I—Not particularly. I was only in a few of her classes.” You can’t stand this conversation.

“Ah, I see.” Mr. Wang nods solemnly. “Well, I thank you again. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”

You shake his hand as firm as you can summon, and excuse yourself to go look for Celine. After all, you’re at this funeral to support her. Your footsteps are heavy in your shining dress shoes. It feels as if the ground is giving way and collapsing beneath the weight of the leather.

That night, you lay in your bed of pleasure alone. The gingham duvet is bundled around your feet; the summer heat is uncomfortably humid. You left the curtains wide open, so the moon shines dully, illuminating the polaroid that lays on your nightstand.

You can’t sleep.

Probably, you reason, because of the funeral. You’ve never been to one before.

Reaching over to your nightstand, you turn the photograph over despite yourself.

It does nothing to soothe your mind.

You continue to toss and turn like a corpse in a grave.

A few days later, you and Celine walk along through the forest trail near the high school. When she asked you out, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. In your old red hoodie and jeans, you biked over as fast as your feet could pedal. You see her before she does you. Sitting gracefully on a wooden bench, she swings her feet, and smiles so prettily when she notices your arrival.

The two of you walk closely, hands brushing occasionally as you trail over dusty roots and yellow leaves decorated with little bug bites along the edge. All you want to do is reach out and feel her touch again. You have to physically stop yourself from doing exactly that.

“How are you doing?” you ask, and then regret it as soon as the wretched words leave your mouth. You don’t want to talk about it, but you can’t help but notice the way she slumps. You can’t bear the sight.

Celine’s summer dress blows gently in the wind, sneakers trudging along the dirt path. “I miss her.”

“I’m sorry.”

She looks at you, eyes that tiresome teary blue. Your hand twitches, awaiting the moment they spill over, awaiting the second you have an excuse to pull her in.

“I…loved her.”

The words string out of her mouth and wrangle around your poor heart like a noose. “I know. She was your best friend.”

She stops. Turns and looks at you.

It’s suffocating.

“Yeah,” is all she says.

The two of you return to your walk in silence. The birds chip, the grass crunches, the sun burns; you find relief when you make your way under the shade of a large oak tree.

“Benji?”

“Hm?” You like the sound of your name in her mouth.

“What was it like when you found her?”

“She…” You swallow, struggling to find the words. “Are you sure?”

Celine nods defiantly.

You tell her:

“She…was already dead when I found her.”

You don’t mention the black hoodie, the black sweatpants, the black beanie pulled low over your brows.

“She crashed into a tree, I think. The car was on fire.”

You don’t mention the feeling of cartilage crunching beneath your fingertips as you squeezed and squeezed until she felt her eyes bulge out. Until the muscles, tense and tight, finally relaxed limp.

“I didn’t want to get too close. I called 911 right away.”

You don’t mention the relief you felt when you found the car keys in the pocket of her jeans—and the thrill when you drove a car straight into a tree.

“I didn’t even know it was her.”

You don’t mention the way your muscles ached as you struggled to throw the body into the driver’s seat—smashing the head against the dashboard for good measure—until ruby blood matted the dark hair on her forehead.

“I wish I could've gotten there earlier.”

You don’t mention the click of the lighter when you lit it and threw it into the engine, nor the crash of exploding metal shattering the windshield.

“I don’t know, maybe I could’ve saved her.”

Celine grabs your hand tightly. “No, Benji. Don’t think like that. You did everything you could. I’m so grateful for you and everything you’ve done.”

You don’t mention all of this.

But you’ve dreamt of it every night since.

Celine asks you to come with her to the mausoleum come Chinese New Year. You want to turn her down, but then you notice her eyes—always her eyes: no longer mourning but a morning blue.

So you say yes, and wonder if yours are necrosol brown.

Into the building through the fallen snow, you carry the bags of incense, fruit, and miniature folding table; the image of a disgustingly good boyfriend. Celine gives you a small kiss as you set the items down in front of the altar. She has cut her hair, so now the brown locks hang just above her shoulders. You love it; she looks gorgeous. Older and more mature than the broken girl five months ago.

The mausoleum looks nothing like you expected, with its tall windows, golden statues, and brass chandeliers. It’s not dark and creepy at all, which sets you at ease.

Celine hums as she lights the incense, placing it on the table, alongside the offerings. You stand there awkwardly. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Mrs. Wang told us to pray and stay with her until the incense burns out.” She wraps her arms around your waist, grabbing your palms in hers. “Keep your hands like this,” she presses them together. “And speak to her.”

You take a deep breath as you watch Celine step towards the altar, eyes up at the urn. It’s a marble red, the colour deep, dark, metallic scented. You don’t want to touch it, afraid the colour will stain your skin and never wash off.

Celine closes her eyes and prays silently. Her words are heard through the incense. They’re familiar, littered with inside jokes, life updates, and her wonderfully soft nostalgia. The words taste warm alongside her rose perfume.

As expected, you do not speak to me.

When the incense is burnt to the wick, when I finish relishing the words off of Celine’s pink lips, when you violently fold up the table, quick to pack up—I follow.

I follow the two of you as you drive to her house, hand in hand, while Celine grins at you like she used to me, leading you up the stairs into her room. You both sit on her double bed. She tells you everything about me, about her and me, but still, nothing about us. And you listen intently, not focused on her words, but rather on controlling your face so it doesn’t fall and crack and leak out all the poison that’s been slowly filling your heart.

You only forget about it all when she pushes you onto your back and kisses you deeply. These days, you rely on her to dilute your memory. You lose yourself in her, everything she says and sighs, everything she does and drives. She is the only constant in your life.

And so am I.

Your eyes fly open.

Celine is yours, you tell yourself, and tighten your grip on her body. She’s mine, you tell me.

I only laugh.

You don’t like that. Your entire body stiffens, and that dreaded sense of cold washes out her warmth. Suddenly, your body is light, is weightless, is hollow. You close yourself off so I don’t make my way in.

Celine pauses. “Are you okay?”

You can’t breathe. Your palms are sweaty, clutching onto her blankets like a lifeline. Her brow furrows and she reaches out to touch your face.

You flinch.

She draws back, unsure. “Benji?”

“I—” You get up, running your fingers through your sticky hair, pulling at it so your scalp stings. “I need to go.”

Celine, taken aback, nods slowly. You bumble your way down the stairs, to your car, to your home—I follow.

You ridiculously take precautions to lock your front door then the bathroom door. Benji, I don’t need to force my way in—my hands burned up along with the rest of my body months ago.

The faucet runs slow and cold. No matter how long you wait for it to warm up, it never does. You curse the water pressure as you cup your shaky hands under the sink, flinching and gasping at the frigid liquid you splashed onto your face. What are you panting for? You knew the water was cold, and yet you still drenched yourself in it. You regretted it the very moment your pores closed up, screaming, the very moment you felt it sting.

Your veins bulge through your pale skin. You lean over the sink, grabbing the rim for support, positioning yourself as if the thought of being swallowed into the mucky drain keeps you balanced.

Your reflection stares back at you in the foggy mirror. He’s red where he used to be white. He’s sunken where he used to be full. His blond hair drips with sweat, so he pushes it away from his forehead. He’s gasping for air and continues to stare past his shoulder, meeting my eyes, but not his own.

He wants to hit something. His fist itches to pummel a body.

I press my face against yours, and lick up the little salty droplets of water dotting your forehead. You freeze under the warmth of my tongue, eyes wide.

Roaring, you tear open the bathroom door and stumble into your room. The curtains are pulled shut, engulfing everything in shadow. I like how cool it feels here. Your bed is messy. Clothes litter the floor in moist bundles that slowly begin to collect mold. Your backpack leans against the wall, filled with unfinished homework and a report card you don’t dare let escape its depths. You trip over a single shoe on your way to the nightstand, cursing it with a violent kick.

I laugh at the drama of it all.

You fist the dusty polaroid photo. Crumpling it as much as the plastic allows, you rip it in half. Of course, you hold onto the half with Celine, but me? You throw to the ground childishly. Distorted and gray, my face flutters to the ground. My lips no longer touch Celine’s, separated forever by a single tear down the middle.

You throw yourself into bed, curl up into fetal position, and tell yourself you’re okay. You must be coming down with a cold, or something. That’s why you’ve been struggling to sleep, shaking to stay warm, easy to anger.

Just angry angry angry.

Always angry when you choose to speak to me.

“Leave me alone,” you growl. “You’re ruining everything.”

I answer by crawling into your throat.

“Get out!” you choke out around the lump. Tears threaten to leak from your eyes, but you won’t cry. Not in front of me. Not because of me. You keep it all inside.

You rip the duvet off the floor and wrap it tightly around yourself, a shield of feathery down that’s more placebo than protection. I force myself past your slimy stomach sphincter, squeezing myself into your duodenum so your intestines struggle through peristalsis. You feel your toes bubbling. You feel your nose melting. Your esophagus stings: it wants to crumple and rupture so your tongue can taste its own blood.

You’re convulsing so violently that you barely notice the bedroom door creak open.

“Benji?”

A rose perfume wash. You try to focus on it like an anchor, but your mind is foggy and you can’t see because everything is spinning and smoky and spinning into a gross mockery of my face. The ringing in your ears gets louder and louder, crashing against your eardrums like bark impaled with metal.

“I’m sorry for showing up like this—I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Celine’s voice is soft, and yet, it cuts like windshield shrapnel.

You whisper her name, pry your eyes open, and try to reach for her.

“Benji, are you sick?” She presses a kiss to your lips. She tastes bloody and singed and bruised, nothing at all like what you used to fantasize watching the two of us walk hand in hand.

She kisses you, and all you can taste is me.