Death. Birth. Two ends of the same stick. You don't know when you'll be dangling off one, or be struck by another. They both look the same, like two ends of a casket. It's the first thing I think when I see it, regally poised on top of our dinner table. Eighteen gauge steel, square corners, painted premium white in matte lacquer, embroidered head panel, silver stationary handles, nude crepe interior, an adjustable bed and mattress. It has a clean new smell. Its weight without my body is 200 pounds; it says so on the flyer next to it. Its weight with my body will be 307 pounds. It took four men to carry it in, after father and I hastily cleaned up the foyer and I hid upstairs in my room, waiting for them to leave. I need to get inside, but my muscles stiffen, playing on the idea of proper algor mortis, or siren death chill. No cooler needed, I'm as cold as ice. Attending my own funeral. Washed, shampooed, and dressed in jeans and my spare Siren Suicides hoodie. Blue, of course.

I make myself move, feeling my father's hand on the small of my back, concentrating on my feet, both snug in two white canvas slip-ons. I touch the edge of the casket, caressing its smooth lining with my fingers. What a change from the marble bathtub, all this cushioning, designed to soften my journey into the afterlife. With a sigh, I lift my right leg, clasp the edges, and slide in, scooting all the way to the middle as I lay down. My strength is back, but it doesn't give me the desired comfort. The last thing I see is our Swarovski chandelier swinging above my head. Its light throws peculiar shadows on the ceiling like ripples of water. Papa's face swims into view, blocking out the light. His neatly combed hair forms a halo around his head, shimmering with iridescence.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, exhilarated in some strange sense.

"Remember, not a peep. See you on the other side," he says.

I don't smile at his morbid joke.

The lid drops shut with a soft whoosh. The last ray of light disappears into darkness. I smell the synthetic glue and hear Papa open our front door, step outside, and yell for help. I also hear his soul, that faint smoldering melody that I hope I'll be able to restore once we make it to Italy.

Four men slam car doors somewhere outside the house and briskly jog up the stairs. Formal greetings and condolences are offered, and then they come near me. An instrumental soul quartet—one bass, one violin, one trumpet, one accordion. Their souls trickle in to me as petrified and broken, yet delicious. Salty. Pungent. My chest rumbles and I'm terrified they'll hear it. I'm hungry. For one split second, I want to kick open the lid and devour them all at once, but I somehow suppress the urge.

Play dead, Ailen. Remember, play dead.

Papa leaves. I hear the staccato of his heels. The first stab of doubt pricks my skin. I wave it off.

He promised, didn't he? He promised.

The four men grab the coffin's handles, two on each side, grunt, and then slide the casket off the table as they lift me up to waist level. Silent prior to my father's departure, they launch into comments about how light I am and how there is no foul odor; they move on to what was on TV last night and what beer they had, whether or not there will be free food at the service, and how, of course, there will be with that rich prick throwing such an expensive funeral for his stupid daughter who decided to drown.

They carefully trot as they share their displeasure with our generation at the same time. They wonder how my body was found, and by whom. And how come none of them heard anything on the news.

Family doesn't talk about their dead in this way, at least they have courtesy to be polite and hold such thoughts to themselves. These four men are strangers to me, and they could care less.

I half-listen, half-swim, pretending I'm in my mother's womb, enclosed in softness, swinging in fluid movements, carried down the cascade of stairs, outside, and into the back of a hearse. Its old rear doors creak as they flap open to receive me. Then they slam shut.

Bodies shuffle in and make the chassis shake a little. The engine roars to life and the hearse lurches.

My heart quickly surges and sinks. I can't hear Papa's soul. He's definitely not inside the hearse. Did he leave before, in his beloved Maserati? Why didn't he stay with me? Isn't he supposed to stay with the body? Won't it look strange if he doesn't? I have no answer to these questions.

Maybe he's driving after the hearse, because there is not enough space in here, you know that. There is only room for four, I tell myself. But I can't hear his Maserati behind us, it's quiet. I decide to wait. It will be all right. He promised, he will come. He has to show up for his own daughter's funeral, doesn't he? He can't be late.

The hearse crawls several blocks down the hill, turns around, slows down, and pulls into what must be a parking lot. I trace a mental map of the journey and an image passes my inner eye. How ironic. The place where my mother's empty coffin was on display for whatever family decided to gather to bid their goodbyes; a drab beige Tudor-style house, conveniently located by Seattle's suicide bridge, will be the place of my final departure as well. Bleitz Funeral: sensible cremation and burial options. I should've known. My father's a creature of habit.

I think back to that day. It was raining, and I don't remember much except for the murmurs of distant relatives above my head, people I met for the first time in my life. The building itself. I was struck by how inappropriate it looked for its purpose. The way its façade was layered, like a birthday cake. The way its windows were placed, like smeared on squares of frosting. The way its roof was colored, like somebody wrote Happy Birthday in diamond-colored piping gel on top of its greenish, sugary glaze. I blink several times, trying to rouse myself from my ten-year-old mind, back to the present. But I can't help it, victim to my own wishful thinking. I always dreamt of a perfect birthday. With a perfect cake.

The hearse doors slam, bodies exit, and the back doors open. Four pairs of strong arms lift me out and start their walk. The way they carry me in—I imagine in total darkness—it's how they would slice a cake, with a sharp knife, parting its body, smooth and velvety, with enough pieces for everyone to chew on, to taste, and to swallow, before they comment on it and move on, forgetting it a moment later.

I'm the confection on top of this macerated mass, saved for one special guest—Papa. In a couple of hours, I'll be lying in an open casket on display, only six days after my sixteenth birthday. It's a Saturday, if my calculations are correct, a perfect day for a birthday celebration. This is my own private party, complete with flowers, food, a fancy boat ride, and a dressed up crowd. I'll be the only one donning color on this occasion.

The casket shifts direction. I feel every turn, and hear every soul around me, every engine of the passing cars. It promises to be a busy morning. The same four men carry me, conversing in hushed chatter. They pause in front of what must be a sidewalk stoop or stairs; they lift me higher and then trot forward again. Right on time, and fitting the occasion, rain starts pummeling the casket's lid. Its dull tinkling adds to my melancholy.

We enter the building, I can tell by the echo of the footsteps. We turn once, twice. I would imagine they will lower me into a cooler or a walk-in refrigerator, to have me all chilled and embalmed and made up for the ceremony, but they don't. They quietly place me on top of what must be a display table and leave. I sigh in relief. Good. I won't need to pretend to play dead while some poor funeral makeup artist pampers my face to make it look rosy as opposed to deadly white.

Papa, where are you? I cast my auditory tentacles a mile around, feeling for his presence. He's nowhere to be heard, nor can I hear anyone's soul I recognize.

I spend the next hour or two in agony of anticipation and from the decreasing oxygen inside the casket.

A man enters the room, gingerly steps closer, and opens the lid. A waft of fresh air hits my nostrils and it takes an effort not so suck it in with a loud whoosh. I hold my breath, stiffen, and press my eyes shut. He doesn't mind, doesn't care, this is routine to him. He checks everything to make sure it looks good, even adjusts my hoodie, smoothing out the wrinkles by my neck and straightening the tassels. I wind up tenser at every touch, wanting to leap at him, ignite his soul and suck it out—this mix of bad '80s music and a continuous hiss of soda cans opened in rapid succession, with an undertone of battle cries from video games. Sugary. The sickening synthetic kind you get from artificial sweeteners.

"Nice hair. Bleached blondes are my favorite," he exclaims in a quiet warble. He must be in his early thirties, I decide, a typical basement loner with a job to pay the bills.

"It's too bad you're dead. Such a pretty face," he sighs, tracing the contour of my lips with the very tips of his fingers. I stifle an urge to bite him, my diaphragm convulsing in disgust. I hope he doesn't notice my chest movement. He doesn't, continuing his strange one-sided conversation.

"I heard how you died, that's a horrible way to go. I guess I'm sorry. Rest in peace, girly." He walks away, calling out to the funeral director that the body is ready.

I breathe out. The show is about to start.

Now that the lid is open, a majestic opera of human souls assaults my ears. People have started to arrive. I swallow, ravenous. My weakened body needs new energy, soon. This will be harder than I thought. The onslaught of sound moves toward me, rapidly. I revel in it, imagining what it would feel like to have music within me, to be one of them, to live their life, so full of warmth and as rich as velvet. It seems I've been gone for a century or more and have forgotten how it truly feels to be alive.

Six days ago, only six days ago, I was one of them.

I lay still, frozen at the thought and the weight of it on my chest. The faint smell of lilies travels on the breeze from the air conditioner, and my tongue tastes like talc, my throat going dry. I dare to curl my hands into fists, uncurl, curl and uncurl, seeking relief, and then decide to take a quick look around, while I'm alone.

I open my eyes.

I'm on top of a table. Its right side rests flush against the wall, and the left side faces the open space of an ugly beige interior. The interior of a chapel, about thirty feet wide and eighty feet long. Everything about it is beige—the diffused lighting, the ceiling, the walls, the fake silk of the upholstered chairs. I suppose the floor is beige too, but I don't risk sitting up to confirm my theory. I face dim floor-to-ceiling glass windows, adorned by dusty curtains that haven't seen a cleaner in probably more than a year.

Movement prompts me to close my eyes. I've seen enough.

More cars arrive. Tires of all sizes slosh through shallow puddles on the asphalt road. Brakes creak, engines die. People pile out, coax their children to follow, help their elderly. I try to think of one face I remember from my mom's funeral and I can't. It's a blur. I go back to listening, it's the only thing I can do in my position. And maybe, if I'm careful I can slit my eyes open just a hairline, to see.

A general respectful buzz swirls a mere fifty feet or so away from me. Greetings are exchanged, shoes squeak on the wet marble floor. Lips smack at their newly applied lipstick in front of the bathroom mirror, toilet flushes. A multitude of noises that used to be normal to me. I can hear everything so clearly, like I'm truly part of this life.

I'm about to be the very center of attention. The most popular girl of the party. The one to whom everyone wants to talk. The one whom everyone wants to kiss, and maybe even shed a tear or two, from utter admiration, of course.

People mill around in the foyer, chattering, waiting for the ceremony to begin. I feel important. The clock strikes nine. I risk parting my eyelids a fraction of a hairline. The doors open and the crowd quietly fills the chapel, its air empty one second, rapidly breathing and shuffling the next.

I feel his presence. I hear his footsteps.

Papa, you're here. You made it.

I know him by his breath, by the barely detectable limp in his right leg, and the distinct smell of his signature cologne as it fills my nostrils with hope and anticipation. Above all, I know him by the burning melody of his soul. He slowly steps up to the casket, lightly touches my hand as if acknowledging that everything is going according to the plan, and leaves without a word.

I can't help it and I open my eyes just a sliver more.

People flow in a stream of black attire and hats. Mostly women's hats, black with bows, black with veils, black round, and black flat. The few children who are present have their hair made up and brushed and clean for the occasion. Men wear dark suits. Morbid curiosity presses against their censored looks. Dull whispers spill through the cracks of their politeness. I can tell, they're dying to see me, to see what's left of me, but they don't dare break the etiquette, indulging in social niceties instead. And gossip.

My head swims in the cacophony of their souls and snippets of their meaningless conversations.

Hello, how are you. Well, how about yourself. Oh, not too bad. What a tragedy. Nice appetizers over there, did you see? I wonder if they'll serve before or after the ceremony. Fancy flowers. I just love lilies. Look at the table, there she is. I wonder what they used for the smell. It's been six days; it must be decomposing by now. You don't say. Why wait for so long? Wouldn't fish have eaten off her face by now? Teenagers, so selfish these days, they don't give a second thought about their parents. I think it's in her genes, remember her mother? Pardon me, excuse me.

A short, slim gray-haired woman who must be the funeral director walks briskly through the center aisle, between the filled rows of chairs and toward the end of the walkway. Toward me. She takes a quick look around and nods; probably doing a final check to make sure everything is in tip-top shape. She saunters away, her soul impossibly minty. I curl and uncurl my fists once.

Heads turn to watch her pass, hands reach to dab at the tears here and there, for show, like white snakes out of a black writhing mass. All the relatives whom I never met, who pretend to care. I suspect none of my classmates or teachers came to see me off, because I don't sense anyone I know. Weird. I know Hunter was my only friend, but wouldn't they at least have shown some courtesy? Wouldn't they have been at least interested enough to come and see Roger Bright in his grief, to savor his pain? That rare delicacy rationed only a second time during his lifetime?

Where is he? Where did he go?

I get antsy, having lost his sound amidst the rush of human discord. I wait for him to come, to stand still and composed, to address these fifty something people, to give his eulogy, to list his happy memories of me, to speak of my accomplishments. I get giddy and suppress a smile. This will be a huge surprise. No need to wonder what he'll say. I know. He'll say he loved me, he'll say he misses me so much. He'll cry. He will. Everyone does at their children's funerals.

The clock strikes three minutes too late. Then another three. Then ten. The crowd murmurs. They wait for Roger Bright, the father of the deceased, that sixteen-year-old Ailen Bright who committed suicide by jumping off the Aurora Bridge, did you know? Just like her mother, silly goose. Poor man, his women left him.

I'm mad at this writhing living gossiping crowd. Mad at how different we are. I'm dead, they're alive. I'm freezing cold, they're warm, full of breakfast eaten at home and coffee sipped on the way. Not here out of love, but because they feel obliged. Death makes it hard to be excused.

The clock strikes off another minute.

My anticipation mixes with wonder.

Another minute goes by. And one more. I want to shift, to move, to raise my head and look around.

The crowd says one word, quietly, ever politely, until a little girl hears it escape her mother's lips in a whisper and asks aloud, "Mommy, is her Daddy late?"

"Lizzy," her mother hushes her.

My heart turns into a barking seal. It yelps in pain, it won't shut up. Something must have happened, something must have delayed him. Where did he go? He was just here! I strain to listen, but there's no sound of him, not anywhere near.

The sea of people stirs with unrest, swallowing me in the noise of their souls, exchanged glances, wiped tears, sniffling noses, gloved hands, and craned necks. The air moves. There are light steps as a few women scurry to my casket and position themselves a few feet away from my head. What is this, a choir? Suddenly I hear the faintest whisper in my ear.

"Aren't those lilies lovely, Ailen Bright?"

I turn to ice.

Canosa hovers close to my face. She's clothed in proper funeral attire, a black dress, black gloves, black hat, and a black smile behind her veil. I catch my shriek before it forms itself fully and escapes my lips. Surprise gives way to shock, then to hate, and then to wonder. What's she up to? Why is she here? Does my father know?

"Your flower arrangement, it's lovely. White lilies. I love lilies. Mine was made from hydrangeas. Detestable, to say the least." She delivers it all in a quick whisper indiscernible to the human ear, but I hear every word.

I correct my face, play dead, and try to ignore her.

What should I do, what should I do.

"Poor darling, darling girl. How very sad. Your dear father must miss you very much, he's so late. I'm sure he's beyond himself with grief."

She sniffles. Liar. My eardrums deflect every word. My head is a balloon ready to explode. My fingers curl into fists under the white cloth, curl and uncurl, curl and uncurl.

He's late for a reason.

"Ailen Bright, the girl who likes to forget, to be on the safe side. I want to remind you, don't meddle in my business, and I won't meddle in yours. Oh, and I was dying to see you in a casket, of course."

I fume, my innards boiling. The image of her killing Hunter—the very picture I tried so hard to suppress—floats up and takes over my misery, deepening it.

"I'll take your silence as a yes. By the way, I'll be singing a sacred hymn for you. I'm part of the choir." I dare to part my eyes wider.

Her green eyes stare at me from behind a shroud of black, an artful mess of silk and chiffon and gauze. Then she turns her head to face the crowd. I see the backs of three other women beside her, they open up their notes which I don't see, but I hear paper crinkle. There seems to be no other soul ready to play a piano or anything of the sort. They'll be singing a capella.

Then I hear Papa. He's parking his car and is hastily making his way into the chapel.

My body is a string of nerves wound up to the breaking point. Silence rolls over the crowd with a final gulp; the volume turns to zero as if dipped underwater. He enters the building. Quiet calls trace his path, sympathetic well wishes light afire and fizzle out in his wake.

Mr. Bright, over here. Good to see you, Roger. My condolences, Mr. Bright. Here, through these doors.

He steps into the chapel, passes the rows of chairs, accepting, nodding, shaking hands, and responding with his usual politeness and tact. At last, he's a few feet away from me, adjusting the microphone.

Canosa smacks her lips. I have to warn him somehow.

He stands tall, clasps his hands in front of his body, and rolls back and forth slightly. Feet shuffle, chairs move, and last polite coughs and sneezes die until it's silent. This is the moment I've been waiting for.

He begins to speak.

"My name is Roger Bright." He pauses. "I want to thank you all for gathering here today to remember my daughter, Ailen Bright. I would like to begin by saying a few words in her memory."

Shuffling, sniffling.

My nerves are about to snap. I want to tug at his sleeve, to let him know who one of the singers is that he hired. I want to scream, Canosa is here, Papa, Canosa!

"It's a terrible tragedy, to outlive your children. My darling Ailen lived a remarkable life, one filled with wonder, joy, and happiness. An obedient daughter, an exemplary student, she had a bright future ahead of her."

He never called me darling before, yet I hear bitterness in his voice. What he means by the possibility of a bright future is the fact that I never amounted to anything. I want to hide from this thought, to run, to scream my head off, but I have to play dead.

A child whimpers, a woman whispers. This is a theater of death performed for the living, lest they dare forget. Impatience prickles my skin. I want to hear those special words.

Momentary silence elapses between two gasps for breath, and then his voice rings loud and clear.

"She was Papa's girl, you could say. She told me one day, she loved me more than her mother." He drops his head and produces an exaggerated sigh.

Liar! I never said that!

The effect is immediate. A wave of compassion rolls through the air in stifled sobs and nods of approval and shakes of the hats on their heads.

My face is a mask of pretense, of concealed surprise. Why, Papa, why? Please, leave mom out of this. Don't touch her. Don't spoil her memory. How can you, after what you've done to her. What kind of a monster are you? My gut sears with pain, every ounce of strength deserts me.

Still, I wait.

I wait for him to say it. To say how much he loved me. How much he misses me. It doesn't come. He talks about who I could have become, of my shiny future that will never happen, of how proud I could've made him as a father. It's all about him. The speech. The funeral. The guests. The attention.

I'm out of the picture. I'm not even here. He lied, again. And I fell for it, again. I fell for it like I always do. Like my mother did before me. Lies, all beautiful, empty words. He waited to dispose of me, like he disposed of her. Women, in his eyes, are made for one purpose only: to haul water on their backs. That's it.

There will be no happily ever after.