I’M NO MASOCHIST, MOTHER

I couldn’t imagine stepping out into the cold now, not without him, not after the rain had slicked the roads and taken him from me.

It was raining again. It felt like it had rained everyday since I got the call from his parents. The words had been playing on repeat in my mind for the last week - I’m so sorry, he’s goneand every time I closed my eyes I could see my mother’s face dim and my sister’s eyes swell with tears as I forced myself to relay the news. I knew the funeral was tomorrow, and my mother would soon come into my room to try and coerce me into attending, but she would be unsuccessful.

I’ve never understood funerals or remembrances of life. To me, the idea of being forced to sit through a long ceremony telling me that I’ll never see someone I love again seems a cruel and unusual punishment. I’ve always felt it best to leave myself with a memory of us together; happy and believing we were on top of the world. It’s not like I wouldn’t remember them in my own way - my penchant for photographing the majority of my life ensured that there would be a long slideshow of memories to look back on when I was ready. But for now, I would simply sit by my window as the rain cascaded down the glass and recall the times we had danced in the rain - indifferent to the feeling of the cold and the way our wet clothes stuck to our freezing bodies. Eventually, we would be dragged inside by our mothers, scolded for our lack of jackets and senselessness, but we never cared. I couldn’t imagine stepping out into the cold now, not without him, not after the rain had slicked the roads and taken him from me. But still, I could sit, and could dream of a happier time. My door creaked open, and felt my shoulders tense. I knew it was time for an uncomfortable discussion, but I also knew I would not be swayed.

“Hey, honey,” my mother began quietly as she slowly padded over to my bed, gently moving the suit for tomorrow out of the way so she could sit, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

I sighed, still gazing out the window, “I told you, I’m no masochist, Mother. I’m not going.”

It was quiet, for a moment as she debated arguing with me in her head. This was not the first time we had the conversation, but it had so far been the quietest. All throughout the week we’d had screaming matches, sharp words flying between us that we both knew could not be taken back. She believed I should go, it was only right to see him one last time, and to support his family. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to ruin our last memories of us: snuggling under the covers as we shrieked our way through a horror movie, accidently dropping my hot chocolate in his lap, running through the halls after he’d dumped ice water on me while I was in the shower. The thought of staring at my best friend’s cold, waxy face in the coffin hurt more than any guilt trip she could throw at me. I knew that the moment I laid eyes on him, my memory would be forever tainted, and I just couldn’t have that. Finally, I heard her rise, and she placed her hand on my shoulder.

“Okay hun,” she acquiesced, “I’ll call his parents for you, tell them not to expect you after all.”

“Please tell them I won’t go to the remembrance of life either,” I muttered despondently, “I don’t want to be forced to grieve that way.”

Her grip tightened, loosened, then tightened again - as if she couldn’t decide how she should respond. There was another quiet sigh, before she patted my shoulder and slipped out of my room, leaving the door slightly ajar. I felt my body relax again, and let the weight of my head slump against the window pane. I would grieve in my own time, on my own terms. But for now, I would sit and stare at the rivulets of rain slip down the glass, and recall the simpler times when rain meant a dance and laugh, not a slip of tires and a wreck.