There is a certain numbness you experience once all is lost, once you're alone, once the shelves of your life have been twisted inside out in order to find an old relic that disappeared with the memory and hasn't returned since then, but we're arguably trying to ignite something out of the carnage.

Not me, though, or at least not now, with the ebony cloaks draped over me burdening any free will that I may or may not have possessed as I wait for Gerard to escort me to the funeral of someone who should've survived. He shouldn't deserve a funeral, be confined to materialism and to the grave, because in many ways he's still with us, but the people attending don't understand that concept, no matter how often I plead for them to get it through their dense minds that funerals are for the guilty and the non-believers.

Nevertheless, Gerard is requiring that I visit the funeral of my best friend, not his, and I know that he's not curdled by the same pain as I am, because he didn't retain that connection to Pete, but he must be sympathetic, though he's still knocking at my door at ten o'clock in the morning with a black tie prepared to strangle him — and then me — so maybe a few boundaries have been expanded, though I don't know in whose favor.

"Patrick, are you ready to go?" The man teeters on his feet, a bit nervous at what my reaction has in store for him and predicting that it'll be bitter.

"Not at all, but you're forcing me to attend, so whatever."

Gerard's posture curtsies in dejection, displeased by my stubbornness, the same stubbornness that got Pete killed. "I know this is difficult for you, but Pete would appreciate it."

"Pete is dead," I bluntly state. "He can't communicate with us."

"Well if he were here, he would love to see that you're honoring him."

"But he's not, so he wouldn't, and he doesn't need a funeral if he's here anyway, so what good does it do?"

Gerard stares at me blankly for a moment, invisibly sorting through what to do with me and my annoyingness, and a sigh collides with his windpipe. "Just try your best, yeah?"

I don't answer.

~~~~~

The disparity between the people at the funeral and my vision of the people at the funeral is astronomical. I had suspected Lindsey would be here, accompanied by Frank, Ryan, and Brendon, sometimes Dallon (it depended on my mood), but none of those people are currently present, and even Gerard has vanished from sight to join his friends.

Their figures are as stunning as ever, whisked in elegant dresses and suits, but their faces have been carved away, hollowed out to construct an array of skulls decked with indistinguishable features that convert the atmosphere to a ghastly grey and render me completely hopeless in finding what I need.

This funeral was a mistake, and I'm glad in saying that I had no part in its planning. That was Ryan, because I guess he just felt responsible for whatever happened to Pete, though it was entirely my fault (I just didn't own up to it because of the monstrous funeral to come), and because of his frantic repenting, he produced such a horror of an event that no one should really care about, and they don't, as their friend just died in the domesticated environment of the Caribou cottage when that's such a rarity, and they're all still so confused as to how that could've transpired instead of accepting that it did and that there's no solution to death, and there's no solution to a broken heart, either.

Though I can't comprehend why these people would suffer from a broken heart anyway, because they weren't as familiar with Pete as I was with him, and they recognized that, so early on they just left us two alone to do as we may with one another, and they just figured that we were so deeply in love that we drowned at the mere thought of each other. Because of that, they would have no part in our affairs, and they never delved into the majesties of Pete Wentz and all of his traits thoroughly enough to give a single fuck when he died.

No one ever cared about him to give a single fuck, and I did, so I should reign over the decision to hold a funeral or not, but that authority was stripped from me unfairly, and now I have to watch as the scene layers the dismal landscape.

A man centers the stage, skull as hollow as the rest of them, and I identify the man to be none other than Brendon Urie, a Brendon Urie whose charm has been invaded by gasoline and lit on fire until it's but a bleak ember and his personality is an afterthought. An earthquake conditions his face towards lunacy, and it seems as though he's being held against his will to perform a never-ending ballad that narrates the terrors of birth through death that may as well be describing him. In his hands, a bow shakes, guided by the fierce strings of a violin as it rocks back and forth to cultivate variegated screams flitting across the sky and commanding the plants all around us to wilt into ashes, but no protests erupt from the crowd. Rather, they're enjoying every yelp and cry, every plea for mercy emanating from the instrument, and they're bathing in the devil.

"Isn't the music magnificent?" a man marvels, leaning a tad too close for my liking, though nonetheless close enough for me to decipher that he's Ryan Ross, a person who used to be so friendly but now dines to the sound of torture. Doesn't he understand that what he's doing is immoral?

"Quite the opposite, actually."

The decaying man nudges me jokingly, oblivious to my discomfort at everything around me. "Aww, don't spoil the occasion."

"The occasion was already spoiled when it was planned."

Ryan ignores me, then gesturing to the casket in front of the stage with a bony finger. "Look! You can go and see the body!"

I have no idea why he's so ecstatic at the sight of a dead body, but I should examine it nevertheless, because Pete was my friend, and if Gerard wants me to honor him, perhaps I should know what exactly it is that I'm honoring.

I rise sluggishly to pilgrimage towards Pete's coffin, Ryan shoving me to speed things up so that he can take his turn, however morbid, at the body, but my feet have imported metal to their gait so that I'm pulling slowly along, and a minute passes before I behold the person dozing in the casket.

Peacefulness consecrates the man's pallid complexion, the only color threading his lips together as if no one desires his opinion, as if he's meant to be buried, as if he vocalized an opinion that the people weren't so keen on and was framed in the perspective of death. While my vampiric skin is the crux of my inauspiciousness, Pete's is absolutely alluring, like he's been put to rest when he couldn't have dreamed of it earlier. I feel like I should be happy for him, but who ever heard of someone to be jealous of a corpse?

The suicidal kids, perhaps, and Pete was one of them, so I presume that there's good reason for his occupancy here, and I have faith that he considers himself lucky to be dead in this coffin without friends to talk to, because he screwed up. He fucking screwed up in ways that not even he can imagine, and he was confused about it all, because he didn't quite grasp the extent at which he ruined his own life and mine, too, and he was just so fucking guilty about something he knew nothing about. Maybe he was delusional for being so capricious about his own emotions, but that doesn't matter when you're cognizant of the fact that he ran himself over again and again without rest because of whatever it is that was going on in his mind, and not even I could save him.

His heart was as cold as the hypothermia that snatched him away, and I'm sure that they're best friends now, waltzing around with a poisoned touch as they obtain what they need and aren't bothered that they just fucking killed it, and there's no doubt that he'll never question it, because this is his own personal brand of therapy that not even I can counter, because it's all just a range of taste, and his happens to border on insanity. I hate that it flaunts itself that way, but I can't contradict opinions, even if they're the things that paint ambiguity over my friend's lips and befuddle me the most, because he had a hell of a lot of opinions that he would share and then prove me incorrect time and time again, and it's not like I cared much, because he was always right and sensible and everything that I could never be, and it's tragic that this was only a veneer, that this was just a dose of heroin to soothe a restless mind but could fade just as easily as his optimism.

Pete's euphoria and depression were just lines that bled into each other until they were blurry messes that only he could decrypt, and that didn't consent to outside influences that would only nurture him, much against his own perception's ideas, so there we were, standing at the sidelines for him and waiting for the permission to assist the man whom we held dear, the permission that never rang out and allowed us realize that we weren't a part of his life at all.

Truth is, he was walking when he was supposed to run, and he's dead because of it. He's dead, and I won't be able to ever linger by his side, around his strawberry fields, in his bed, and perhaps it's deranged to want to sleep with a corpse, but we all know that's what he's always been.

He's happier now.

~~~~~

A/N: did you know that I hate life :')

hopefully you didn't think this was real because that would be weird if there were skeletons populating the funeral so

current vibe: when I was at lunch with my mother and I was smirking because of what happens in this fic I'm so mean

~Ratkota