The funeral.

I had been dreading it all week. I didn't want to go. I didn't want more sadness.

Everyone would wear black. Everyone would cry. They'd recall good times and retell stories of adventures and highlight moments, relive everything. I wanted to forget everything.

The hospital released me a few days before, declaring me well enough to leave the white and sterile walls. Mom picked me up; Claire brought flowers. They both cried and hugged me when I got to the car, but it was a silent ride home. When we got there I went straight to my room.

I hadn't left.

Mom kept bringing plates of food. I was never hungry. There was emptiness in me that food couldn't fill. The smell made me sick to my stomach. I had to choke down vomit and when I couldn't, I'd run to the bathroom. When I'd look up from rinsing out my mouth, I was left looking in the mirror into at face that wasn't mine.

The kid looking at me wasn't me. He had dark shadows and bruises under both eyes. He was pale and skinny and weak and sick. I didn't know him. I didn't want to.

My fingers traced over the tidy stitches on my right eyebrow. The line curved up ending near the middle of my forehead. It looked ugly, small black stitches staring out of the healing wound. A few more weeks and I'd get them removed, but the scar would be there forever. A constant reminder of what I'd done.

I thought about this as I sat, dressed in a stiff black suit that was too big for me, surrounded by grieving family and friends. The bright blue sling holding my arm in place seemed wrong and inappropriate among the sea of black and dark faces. Dad's friends, co-workers, family. All here at his funeral. His funeral. He was dead, frozen in the closed coffin. Not really here to attend, but yet it was his funeral.

That morning I made a promise with myself. I wouldn't cry. I couldn't cry in front of all these people. I was now man of the house. I had to be strong. Standing there, watching my father's body sinking lower and lower into the ground, it took all of my strength to keep that promise. Mom was weeping under her dark hat.

She and Claire were holding each other, surrounded by grandparents. I stood away, a fragile reason for why they were all here. Maybe if they looked too hard I'd shatter, maybe if they touched me I would break.

A familiar arm slid around my waist and pulled me in. Kelsey gave me a sad smile and dropped her gaze to the ground. Wrapping my good arm around her, we stood like that while the funeral proceeded. None of my other friends came, but Kelsey was there and that was all that mattered. We talked a few times over the past week, about everything that happened, how much school I had missed. It had been nearly three weeks, but Monday morning I was heading back. Another thing I wasn't looking forward to.

The man leading the proceedings said a few words about my father, how he was a good man, how no one thought he would go this early. I tried to listen. I went numb instead. I hugged Kelsey tighter to me, but I could barely feel her small body pressed against mine. I went into neutral. Time slid by.

Then it was over and people were leaving. Mom stopped crying and was quietly talking with Dad's parents. Her own parents heading off to the house for the reception.

I didn't want a reception.

People would talk and I would be expected to just grin and bear it. Mom gave me a weak smile as she saw me looking over towards the little group. Claire had found a dry chair watching her dad be buried beneath six feet of nearly frozen earth. I closed my eyes for a moment and wished that I could turn back the clock. Wished I had been the one in the ground. When I opened my eyes nothing had changed.

"Hey, babe," Kelsey murmured, "I've got to go. You going to be okay?"

I glanced at her and nodded, my heart constricting, my stomach twisted and turned.

"My stupid soccer practice," she added, "but I'll see you on Monday, right?"

I sighed, "Yeah, Monday."

A look of concern crossed her perfect features, her green eyes begging for more information.

"Do want me to stay?" She asked, worried.

"No, no you should go," I tried to smile, "I'll be fine."

"Alright, I'll see you later." She reached up, resting her arms around my neck and brushed her lips against mine. I held her in closer with one arm and we stood there for a moment. Her head lay against my chest, and for a second everything seemed perfect. Then she let go.

"You know I love you right, Jake?"

"Of course, Kels, I love you too," I whispered, holding back tears.

She gave me one more kiss and left. I watched her get into her car and pull away from the cemetery. I went to Claire.

She stiffened when I sat down next to her, relaxed when I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She leaned in towards me and cried. She should still have her dad; she deserved to still have her dad. I hugged her tighter and broke with each sob she suffered through. Her dad would still be alive if it wasn't for me.

I rested my head on hers and sighed. Mom was crying again. Dad's mom had her gripped tight in a hug, while his father looked on at a loss for what to do.

The hole where my father would forever stay was slowly filling in, the two workers diligently shoveling frozen dirt clumps. Covering our dad with dirt. We sat there for minutes, maybe longer. My fingers grew stiff and cold, the day faded away. Mom set her hand on my shoulder and I winced, even a light touch was enough to send a spasm of pain down my arm.

"Sweetie, come on," she said with no attempt to cover up her sadness, "We've got to get going; it's impolite to let the guests arrive without the host."

"Yeah," I nodded in reply. Claire was staring at the ground. I gently prodded her, "Claire." She looked at me and there was a split second of shock. Not used to my face being bruised and beat up.

"We going?" She asked.

"Yeah," Mom's voice was weary, tired. The strain of putting together the funeral and all the planning had wiped her out. I stood, my legs and back screaming in protest. The bruising and aching was still there even three weeks after the accident. I held out my hand to Claire and helped her to her feet. We followed Mom in silence; no one looked backward at my father. No one looked at the grave.

The house was buzzing with activity by the time we pulled up. It smelled like fresh baked bread. There was a buffet more fit for a wedding than a funeral. Mom was swept away into a crowd of friends, who all wanted to give their greatest condolences and tell her how sorry they were. How they couldn't imagine the loss, or that he should have never died that early.

I was sick of people saying that. Yes, we all knew he shouldn't have died, but he did.

My jaw clenched as their words flooded to the mudroom, I tried to block them out. Claire helped me take my jacket off and pulled off my boots. Simple things I still had trouble with, the simplest of things I still couldn't do. We went upstairs, craving a few moments away.

We sat on her bed. Her room covered with posters of indie rock bands, nature scenes and photos of friends. Clothes were in piles on the floor, half finished mugs of tea sat on stacks of papers on her desk.

"I can't believe he's gone," She said, her voice smaller than I remembered.

"I know..." I trailed off. I wanted to say I was sorry. I wanted to say it was my fault. Wanted to say I'd do anything to bring him back. But I couldn't.

"Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"You know it wasn't your fault right?" She squeezed me hand, "There was nothing you could do. It wasn't your fault."

I just nodded. She let go and looked away.

"Guess we should go back down, Mom needs us too." She stood, I stood.

Downstairs questions and pity came at me. I quietly answered everything, thanking everyone for their condolences. People said they were sorry. Said that I would heal up in no time. Said I'd be back and playing football at college next year.

I knew I'd never play again. Even if my arm healed, I could never step onto the field without seeing his face and knowing that I had ended his life.