He loathed them. Each and every one of their puffy, worn faces, he loathed them. Internally his fuming mind sputtered. Spewing from the ache of the hard pine church pew. From the ache of the cedar coffin that contained his only son. His only child.
He sat frozen, an appendage to the seat. His insides as knotted as the cheap wood he benched upon. Another speaker sobbed from the altar, unable to finish their eulogy. The pastor collected them with a gentle hand on their shoulder, and cleared his throat.
Frank hated that bastarding priest. Smug. False. "i didn't know this young man, but i can tell from his friends that he was blah blah blah..."
It made him sick. Sick to his stomach that his boy was remembered by such a sorry lot. Sick to his stomach that they hadn't been able to save him. To watch over him safely as he had for eighteen long years. That they had not only let, but encouraged, his son to drink that night.
That they hadn't had the fortitude, nay, the friendship to say no to him as he had. Sure, their relationship was frayed, their interactions raw, but he had kept his boy alive. Despite all the blow outs, the threats, under his watch, his son had breathed.
An excruciating welp trembled inside, howling for attention. Guilt tore at him, flaying at the corners of his psyche. Regret tangled with the guilt, the two clawing at his insides in their melee. Frank pinched his thigh, battling away tears, refusing to break in front of these people.
He watched his son's alleged "partner's" shoulders shake in the pew in front of him. And felt disgusted. Even more repulsed by the cretin his son had kept with than he was before. Furious that this had happened under their watch.
And Frank fed his fury. Log after spiteful log on the inferno inside. His disdain bubbling louder than the current speaker's sickening memories.
Did they even know the boy? Did they not know how to put him in line? Did they not love him like he did?
From the corner of his eye the father wept. The emotion humiliated him, and his anger turned on himself. Raging that he had bent in front of the unworthy.
From the crack his wells of sorrow burst. His boy was in a box. His son would never hear his apologies. His son would never hear the truth, the love. His boy would never know how much his father loved him. Frank's fingernails tore at his skin through the cotton of his pocket. His knuckles shaking as his death grip flexed. Frank was holding his leg for dear life.
As much as he loathed the parade of fools, he prayed they wouldn't stop speaking. He didn't know if his scarred leg would carry his weight, he worried he would collapse if he stood.
Frank's thoughts went to his ex-wife. He worried that the same anger, his same arrogance that had driven her away, had sent their son to his early grave. He wondered where she was now. He wondered if she would even care to find out their boy was dead.
He knew she would.
He knew he was at fault.
That that fault was larger than he could conceive.
Deep down Frank knew that the reason why he loathed these blubbering bastards was because he could feel their hate each time their eyes darted his way. Worse still, Frank knew that their feelings, more than his, were right.
And he sobbed.
For the first time since he was a boy. Since the last time Frank had felt the sting of his father's leather, he cried. Howling like an animal tearing a limb from a trap, the sound cut through the parish, stopping the speeches.
Frank hunched, drowning in his tears, snorting his pouring snot. As he bowed under the altar, in the shadow of the coffin, the welping man felt a palm on his shoulder. When he was ready, he found kindness from the bench before him. And he shook harder. Quaking like his tears would bring his boy back. Shaking like he could go back in time tell him he loved him. That he was good. That Frank was lucky to know him.
His son's partner's hand stroked his shoulder, told him it was ok. In Frank's heart he knew it was not.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write