The Wrong Casket

The church was awfully cold, and a mid-November gale howled incessantly outside. Rain splattered on the windows above, giving the impression of tiny shards of glass being poured from above. Small candles flickered at each pillar, and I began to worry a future gust would extinguish them all, drenching me in watery darkness. How did they get up there and light them all? Did the poor priest have to lug himself up a ladder every morning, matches in hand? He must be almost seventy by now – surely he had a young choir boy to scamper up there?  

This line of utterly pointless questioning had overtaken my mind since the death. Perhaps it was denial over everything. Or perhaps it was subconscious distraction. I hadn't anticipated how long and drawn out the process would be, and was quite ready for all of it to be over. I thought death was meant to provide some sort of relief. So far, it had just been a ceaseless waiting – for what, I didn't really know. Perhaps it was the funeral that would put an end to all this. I was tired, and I didn't realise the effect not having anyone to vent to would have on me. All this death business was rather lonely.  

The coffin lay solitary in front of the pulpit. I began to move closer when I noticed a distinct lack of colour overlying the coffin. Not a single flower lay atop. I had always imagined a vibrant blanket of colour overlying me. It had comforted me that if there was a consciousness after death (if only I knew what I knew now), the sickly-sweet scent of honeysuckle and roses would float around me dizzyingly, even in the pitch-black of my confines. But there was nothing for my body now. I inched closer – instead of shining dark wood, my eyes lay upon a pale leg, covered in laced tights. I looked away quickly. I had made it explicitly clear I did not want an open casket funeral. And now, my corpse was being exhibited to all. I daren't look at myself further. What an odd thing it would be to look down upon myself. And feel fully, entirely dead.  

A door to the side of the pulpit opened, and Father Richards edged his way out, papers in hand. I had always respected the man, but it felt a bit disingenuous being celebrated here when I had not attended the church for the last fifteen years. It had surprised me when I realised the service would be held here, and I felt a bit misunderstood by the people who I thought knew me the most. I had even written clear instructions in my bedside table, neatly folded and labelled 'For when I die'. How hard could it be? But it had become increasingly evident that paper likely lay exactly as I had left it.  

Father Richards was standing at the pulpit, mumbling under his breath. I picked up the odd word here and there, "committed", "a glorious mother", "fierce friend". A warm feeling spread through my body (or was it just a soul now?) - maybe this was the reward for the last two weeks of this odd purgatory.  

The clock showed twenty-five minutes to twelve. I heard the tide of mourners starting to congregate outside the church. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly self-conscious. I never thought I would be present at my own funeral, and it felt quite awkward that I would see my family and friends blubbering over my death. But to see all these people in one room – what a treat! I wondered whether the invite list had stretched far and wide, to ex-boyfriends and first cousins twice removed, or the children had decided to keep it classy and contained. I selfishly hoped they had been brazen with the list, and past enemies would waltz into the door and I'd get to watch their hilarious attempts at empathetic sniffles.  

Father Richards waltzed down the aisle to open the doors. I braced myself to see my friends and family again. Perhaps this would be the last time I saw them; it felt natural that I would finally 'rest' after the ceremony concluded. I had imagined how this would happen - a dramatic rise of my souls into the open sky above, or a slow dissolve of matter into nothingness. It's odd to have absolutely no experience of something at such a progressed point in my existence. It made me feel young and refreshed, and a bizarrely positive sense of suspense bubbled within me.  

A small, stooped red-headed woman tottled in first, her face partially obscured by the mounds of black fur circling her neck. She walked somewhat aggressively to a pew two thirds down the aisle and shuffled in quickly, gunning for what she thought the best seat in the house. The thought occurred that maybe she didn't want to be seen here, and she had tried to sneak in quickly without any fuss. My mind quickly glossed over any foes I'd had the displeasure of making over the years, but I had mostly been a quietly agreeable woman, shying away from any conflicts that arose. Aside from Gillian, that is, the complete witch of a woman. However, I stood easy in knowing that she had shared the same fate as me merely a few days before.  

More guests made their way into the church. However, I had yet to see a face I recognised. Was I really this popular that people who were practically strangers to me had decided to come and pay their respects?  

At last, a couple wandered in. Sarah and Freddie. I hadn't seen them since our last university reunion eight years previous, and was touched that they would make the journey from Scotland for me. They scanned the hall, and their eyes settled on the red-headed woman. They squeezed in next to her, both of them hugging her warmly and kissing both her cheeks. That was when I realised who she was. Gillian's closest friend. A wave of confusion came over me – why would she be here? I moved closer to them.  

"It's so nice of you to come so far," the red-headed woman said. I could now see her face more clearly. Her brow was furrowed deeply, each wrinkle a chasm holding far more pain than I ever would have imagined from someone who barely knew me - and quite frankly, had great reason to dislike me. I wondered why she would be here so soon after Gillian passing away.  

"She was so dear to us, Jackie" said Sarah. "We wouldn't miss it for the world".  

"I've been thinking about all the holidays we used to go on. Do you remember that awful hotel in Spain?" remarked Jackie.  

Spain? Holidays with Sarah and Freddie? What on earth was she on about? An uneasy coolness spread over me, and I suddenly felt so separate to my surroundings. Each face my eyes landed upon was alien. But the face I needed for reassurance was my own. 

I started towards the casket once again. Surely not. But alas. I looked over the edge of the coffin. Artificially blonde curls. Striking red lips, snarled into a crescent. I had not seen her for many years but could recognise her in a heartbeat. Gillian.