The Greatest Loss

He's so cold. My hand is on his face, my tears are staining his clothing, all prim and proper with the common funeral standards or whatever, and he's so cold. So fucking cold. I can't believe he was ever human, and I feel as though I should turn out, screaming, demanding they tell me where he really is, that this person, this body isn't really Jacob. It's all so cliche.

Henry's shoulder taps my own, and I look up at him. He's crying too. Maybe it's crazy, but it's nice to know I'm not the only one so harshly affected. "He's so pale," he whispers, pressing his hand against mine, fingers brushing against Jacob's skin.

"And cold," I add. My voice is hoarse. I pull my hand away, but can't stop looking down at him. There's no life left in him. Would he want us to mourn? Would he want a funeral? Or would he want us to reflect on the good times? Either way, I'm going to go home and get drunk, wallow in some memories that'll reduce me to tears in the end.

"Come on, Riley," Henry says softly. I watch him swallow, and when I stumble after him, I feel choppy. I stutter. I trip. He takes a seat, up front, near Jacob, near the body, and I try to sit next to him, but now, fuck, I can't move. He takes my hand, pulls me down, tears wetting his eyes. In the seven years I've known Henry, he's never cried in front of me. He's so tough, so strong, and I look up to him. He was sensitive, strong… Stable.

Like Jacob. Jesus Christ. I'm never going to be able to hang out with Henry after this. He's just a walking photo album, because every time I see him, look into his eyes, I see Jacob, and it sends my body into a series of jerks and sniffles, a mess of what I used to be.

I don't feel like I should be in this church. I don't feel that Jacob would've liked his funeral to be in a church. The priest/whatever walks up, asks us all to take our seats. I don't think I can take this, but Henry looks so fragile, and there's not many people here to begin with. Henry, me, some of Jacob's other friends, ex-girlfriends he still spoke with, and very few other family members. Henry was the only one he cared about.

I briefly wonder what it'd be like to lose your twin, but don't have much time to dwell on it. Henry picks up my hand, squeezing it. He glances at me one last time. I can't. I can't take this.

"I'm sorry, Henry," I say, tears returning in my eyes, and I rush out. I don't even care that people stare at me; why should I? How many people here have been friends with the twins for seven years? How many people cared about him, about them as much as I did?

Henry doesn't follow me. I'm not sure if that's bad or not. I want to be alone, but I want someone to talk this over with. I want to ask someone why Jacob. Why anyone I knew? Why... why anyone?

There's benches, I see, and I throw up next to them. It's gross, disgusting, all liquid and clear and burning, acidic, and I can hear Jacob's reaction in my head. I wonder how long this will last. I wonder how long I'll miss him. How long I'll have to be in denial. How long this will sting like it does right now.

The door opens, and I stare at the intruder's feet. "Henry," I whisper, attaching myself to him, grabbing onto his legs, his torso, his waist, anything I can grab. I can't finish a fucking thought with him anymore. I feel so ridiculous. Anyone else would sit in there, holding in their feelings, staring up at the coffin without even pretending that it hurts inside, instead acting as though they didn't even know who died. Like it's all so impersonal. Like it doesn't matter.

"I know," he whispers. We stand. His voice reminds me of Jacob. His smell reminds me of Jacob. The way he sways back and forth subconsciously, trying to sooth me, reminds me of Jacob. Maybe I was stupid for making friends with twins. Maybe I was stupid for having any contact with the outside world in high school. For dating. For trying to have a social life. For trying at all.

This is so hard, to stand out here as the service continues on in the other room, but I don't know what else to do. I can't go back in there and listen to someone who didn't even know him talk about his life, talk about the 19 year old laying in an open coffin. This hurts.

Music drifts through the room, and that hurts too. I cover my ears. Henry hugs me harder. I close my eyes. Henry's swaying becomes a little more intense. Everything reminds me of him. "I can't stop it," I whisper against his chest, and something's wrong. I'm never this emotional. Henry makes fun of me when I get emotional, but right now he's crying with me. Mourning with me. Christ.

"I can't either," he says, voice tight. I chance it, force myself to look up at him. He's still sort of crying, wet eyes, clenched jaw, and it just… Jacob's dead. He's in the coffin, just behind the doors I can't see through, don't want to see through, and neither of us are in there for the last time we'll see him. There are a handful of people that didn't know him very well, and the others weren't important, and we were and--

"Why aren't your parents here again?" I ask, pulling away and wiping at my eyes. This has to stop. My question seems to hurt him even more, and I feel bad for asking.

"They couldn't make it," he whispers. His hand is on my face, and he's looking at me sadly. "They weren't even—Riley, they didn't even fucking care."

The wind rustles through the trees, softly. There's nothing I can say; nothing I can do to make this better.

"We should go back in. H...He'd want us to be there, I think." Henry nods, does something he's never done, something his brother always used to do. Presses a kiss to my cheek. Like Jacob used to do when he'd go away on vacation, or for a week or two, to his mother's house. Anywhere we couldn't be in contact.

I return it, take his hand, and bring him back into the room. No one even has the courtesy to pretend they were paying attention to the service, focusing on us, instead. The priest continues on, though, and we take our seats. My brain is still a mess, but maybe that's okay because so is Henry's.

It ends. I watch Henry and a few of Jacob's other friends bring the casket to the hearse. It's hard to keep it all in, but Henry doesn't leave my side while we get into his car and drive to the cemetery and listen to the priest say the final prayer about death and life or whatever the hell he talks about, and Henry wraps his arms around me tight, squeezing me into him.

When I get home, I cry myself to sleep.

Henry and I don't speak for a few days. When he finally gets a hold of me, he says he's going away for a few weeks. Vacation, or whatever. I don't really listen, and I think he knows that.

I don't see him again.