I Did Something Awful at a Funeral
I certainly wasn’t there to mourn the dead
“Mabel, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, as I embraced her. I wasn’t sorry this man was dead, although I did feel badly for her having lost a husband. I had that much compassion at least. She wiped her tears with a tissue.
“Thank you,” she replied.
There were other people in line to talk to Mabel, and I was relieved to move on quickly so the next person could give their condolences. At least they were probably being honest.
I purposely wore a relatively revealing top, mostly because he would have hated it. If he were alive he’d have berated me for being “indecent” over a bit of cleveage. Not that it would have stopped him from looking.
“Hi, Sandra,” I said as I walked into the auditorium of the church. I knew I was going to see people I’d rather not, but it was worth it. Sandra had always been a snob to me. I was beneath her. She had made it pretty clear over the years that I was worth as much as a cockroach to her.
“Oh hey,” she said flatly. She was as enthused to see me as I was to see her, which was not at all. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”I’vI
“I thought it right to pay my respects to Mabel at least,” I said.
“Well, it was nice seeing you,” Sandra said. I kept my fake, sad, half-smile pasted on my face.
“It was nice seeing you, too. I suppose I should go find a seat and sit down.”
As I walked to the back of the building to find a chair, I saw someone else I knew and didn’t like. I put my hand out for her to shake. She took my hand as if it were something nasty.
It seems that none of us liked each other any more than the last time we’d had the misfortune to be stuck in one another’s presence. It’s funny how things change but they don’t change.
“You had a baby?” I asked, which was kind of obvious because she was holding a baby.
“Yes, he’s five months old.”
“What’s his name?”
“Michael Owen,” Karen responded.
“That’s a nice name, it suits him.”
“Thanks!”
Like anybody gave a shit what I thought about Karen’s baby boy’s name. This stupid small talk was my punishment for having shown up. I had been prepared for it but that kind of bullshit drains me.
I felt as guilty as sin, probably because I was.
I had not come to mourn or grieve for the man who had died. Certainly I wasn’t there for the people left behind. I went to the funeral because I was selfish. I had ulterior motives.
I don’t generally go to funerals, they give me massive social anxiety, but I will go for close friends. This man was certainly not a close friend. He was one of my abusers, and he had helped traffick me to the United States.
He was a “good, Christian man” though, and so his word was Gospel. He encouraged my husband to rape me (that’s not what he called it, of course, he said “ravage” like it was any better), and told me I had to submit to anything my husband wanted to do to me.
The man had one set of rules for everyone else, and a different set for me, like I was supposed to be thankful for the amazing opportunity of being trafficked for marriage to a man I barely knew.
This funeral was worth the social anxiety.
The service was going to be very long and I knew it, and there was no real reason for me to show up, although there was also no reason for me not to show up. I knew the man relatively well. I would not be out of place.
I went to his funeral for one simple reason: to make sure he was really dead.
Not that I believed he would resurrect, but because I wanted to be sure he had departed this world in both body and spirit. I didn’t have to be at his funeral to know if his spirit was still hanging around or not, but it felt like as good of a place to look for him as any.
I do not know what I would have done if he had been there at his own funeral, it’s possible I may have refused to help him move on. It would have been a cruel thing to do and I would have regretted it.
Or I might have moved him along just so that he would know I could see him even though he was dead. I could have even done him harm. It would have been immoral, but I’m not sure I would have cared at the time.
Thankfully it appeared that both his body and spirit had departed this world, or he wasn’t going to show himself to me. I did go and look for him, which isn’t safe and was definitely wrong.
I’m not proud of it and I won’t sugar coat it.
The fact that he was an abusive asshole doesn’t mean I should go and attempt to make him miserable in death.
The man had abused me both spiritually and emotionally, and I wasn’t sad that he had died. I was quite pleased about it. That’s an awful thing to say, I know. It’s not something I would do now.
To this day I wish I had not have done it. I misused the gift of being able to see and speak to the dead when I went to that funeral. I can’t take it back, but these days I only speak to the dead in order to help them and give them comfort.
