Martyrdom

I stare out the window at the bland city. Gray buildings, forgotten warehouses, abandoned and boarded up homes lay dormant for eternity. The car I rode in droned on. Mechanical. No feeling. No life. My eye-lids droop under the heavy mascara I caked on this morning. Twiddling my thumbs, I sit vacant. Not speaking. Not thinking. Just sitting. Sitting as we drove towards the worst place in the world.
I must’ve fallen asleep during the ride, for I felt someone touch my shoulder. I glanced up suddenly to see the bright daylight pouring into the car through an open door in front of me. A man in a blue uniform stands before me, as erect as a statue. For some strange reason, he reminded me of the long black car I had rode here in. Handsome, but mechanical. The man helps me out of the car, stumbling into the light and wiping away the sleep from my eyes I must‘ve looked like a newborn attempting to walk. The black dress I have on is genial, nothing special. It fits well, but unlike some of the other women, it does not have sparkles and sequences or anything fancy. Like my dress, my hair is black. Combed, but not done up in an extravagant bun like some of the women around me. One of the many medallions the man has on the left side of his uniform catches in the light, blinding me for a moment.
“Thank you, Cadet,” I manage to mumble as he shuts the door. He nods and I walk toward the group of people that surround a casket. I say “excuse me” whenever I accidentally bumped into a gentleman or “I’m sorry” when I step on a woman’s open toed pumps. Just like the polite little girl I was raised to be. I look around me to see many men in blue uniforms like the one that had helped me out of the car. They all have the same look on their faces. I could tell that they were about to break down and fall apart like dropped glass. However, they would never do such a thing. These men were soldiers, cadets, generals, you name it. They were trained to be strong. No tears would be shed in public. Strong, bold, brave faces were showing, but I could tell they were hurt. They wanted to cry, but they couldn’t. Men. They can be ridiculous some times. I shoulder my way past the throng of people and into the center of the crowd. That’s when I see her. I turn away and try to blend in with the rest of the crowd.
“Audrey!” Well, so much for blending in. I contemplate for a moment whether I should run or not. I sigh and turn around to face her. “Audrey, honey! Honestly, you need to start dressing up for such occasions sweet heart.” I plaster the fake smile on my face that I had learned to muster up after years of being WAY too polite.
“Hi, mom,” I mutter. She stands before me in a huge black and red dress that seems to wear her instead of the other way around. Her dull brown eyes have a sickening spark in them that I know only appears when she’s excited about having throngs of people around her. I was mortified!
“Do you even care, mom?” I ask condescendingly. I can almost recite her response from memory.
“Oh, of course dear! It’s just you know, these kinds of things where people gather together just get me so excited! But of course, you know that.” And with that, as if that was any answer at all, she was stomping off to speak with some random guy, stabbing the earth with her retched designer stiletto heels. I felt my face pinch into a look of sheer disgust. What guy would even think about marrying her?
I shake my head in dismay and gather my thoughts. People pass me buy, just milling about. Women cry, men wipe their spouse’s tears off of their shoulders. It was all quite surreal to me. It was as if I was watching a movie. A very sad, depressing movie where everyone’s crying. I’d stop watching if I could.
After what seems like forever, the service finally begins. I move to the center of the myriad of people. I don’t hear one word of what the priest was saying. Something about how much someone was loved or whatever. I didn’t care. I was the only one hat could vouch for what the priest was saying, so I cjust went through the motions, nodding my head in the appropriate places.
I don’t know why, but all of a sudden my eyes were riveted to the coffin in front of me. All I can think of is that it’s closed. I don‘t know what happened to me, but I snap. The casket is closed. Closed. No. No, it can’t be closed. It has to be opened.
I have to see him just one more time. Just one more time. I don’t care that they said that it was too horrific to see him. I don’t care that the bomb went off right next to the vehicle he was riding in. I have to see him. Just one more time. I keep repeating this over and over in my head as a different man begins to pay his respects. Just like a broken record, I keep thinking this. Over and over again, until everyone has said a few words.
As the priest says “We will always remember Sergeant Richard Smith as a dedicated, brave, and honorable United States Soldier,” I slowly begin to take steps toward the casket. People whisper their regrets as women sob and men stand stock-still, masked and impassive faces. I notice such details subconsciously as I near the dark oblong rectangle. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the casket, staring down at the dark wood-like material. I hear my mom question, “Audrey?” in a peculiar tone, but this barely registers in my mind.
No one is anywhere near the casket at this time. They’re now eating shrimp and drinking some fancy wine. I stare at my reflection from the gloss of the burial chamber. I think I might’ve heard “Audrey, what are you doing?” but I’m no longer sure.
My hands grip the underside of the casket’s covering.
“Honey, I know this is hard for you…”
I notice that in my reflection, I’m crying.
“… but you just have to let it go, sweetheart…”
I reach up one hand to my face. Nothing. No tears.
“I know how close you two were…”
Why is my reflection crying, but I‘m not?
“… and I know you’re going to hurt for a while…”
Mom, you have no idea, and with that, I begin to lift the top of the casket…
“AUDREY! NO!!!” Shouts of alarm ring up in throngs, like a wailing chorus of dying angels. It was too late.
I look down at my first love. The only one that could make me smile when I was down. The one that will always be cherished. Ever since he looked into my eyes and told me I was his world. We were practically inseparable. Until, of course, the war.
Gasps ring out, people around the casket gag, people away from the casket turn to see what’s going on, then gag, and I even think that the priest barfs up the shrimp and cocktail sauce he was eating not seconds before. There are dreadful moments of just coughs and gags, but I don’t care. I reach into the coffin and touch what was left of his face. The skull is shattered and any normal person would’ve retched by now, but then again, he always said I was special. I trail my hand down and hold his only good hand. This time I feel them. Hot tears pour down my face as I remember that I will never be able to hear him tell me he loves me any more. No more bear hugs, no more anything.
I feel an iron grip close around me. At first I think some of the men have recovered and am now trying to drag me away from the horrific scene, but I realize that I’m sobbing uncontrollably. I collapse into the casket, the grip getting tighter and tighter around my rib cage. My eyes run like faucets. I must’ve soiled the casket with how many tears were pouring out of me.
Now hands really do enclose me. I struggle to get away from the grip, fight to stay with him, to speak with him. I kick and bite and scratch. Suddenly the grip is released. I must’ve kicked the guy in the groin because I stumble forward. I grab the good hand in the casket one more time. The chaos just acclimates around me as I lean in towards him. Another grip holds me tight, but before they draw me away I quickly whisper in his ear, “I’ll miss you. I love you. I’ll never forget you, daddy.”