Sunsets and Car Crashes

William

I remember, when I was younger, I used to have this weird obsession with death and funerals. For some reason, I thought they were really cool, the way that so many people who had been affected by the life of one person could come together and express their grief. Funerals, I had always found, were relatively happy events, if you looked past the black and the incense and the tears; they were a celebration of life.

And yet, this congregation was so small. There was the priest, myself, Nick, Angel, Jake and Jess. That was it. No family, no friends. I had searched high and low for Marco, ringing up hotels, getting Jess to pretend to be Francesca, and there was never anyone there called Marco who had a sister called Francesca. My suspicions were confirmed when a note appeared in my mail box the day before the funeral.

“Francesca’s brother was never in Seattle. He’s still back in England, currently studying medicine at Manchester University. I will send word to the family – Ermanno believes that you are dead. I’m sorry for what I did. I don’t expect forgiveness.”

The note was signed with a large M. I was so angry at whoever had written the note that I tore it up as soon as I’d read it. Not only had Francesca died, but now she had died completely unnecessarily. She thought that she’d been protecting her brother, and all she had been doing was playing a cruel game to keep her in their clutches.

After receiving the note, I had revealed to the others the circumstances of Francesca’s death. At first, they had laughed nervously, believing it to be some kind of sick joke that I was playing on them. But as I had stared at them, the tears beginning to brim, my hands beginning to shake, they had realised that I was telling them the truth. Jake – as usual – was the most silent about the affair, muttering something about how Francesca had seemed “too nice” to be involved in something as sinister as the mafia. Jess had burst into floods of tears as I had explained further about what her role in the organisation was – I think she understood, better than any of us men could, how humiliated and disgusted Francesca had felt with herself.

The priest’s words echoed around the empty cavern. It sounded even more solemn, as there was not enough fabric to absorb the sound between the six of us. It was strange – I had never believed in any sort of god before now, and yet I was sat, without fuss, in a Catholic church, listening to something from the bible without even questioning it. The priest was reading something that he had chosen to comfort us:

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace. Whatever is has already been, and what will be has been before; and God will call the past to account. And I saw something else under the sun: In the place of judgment – wickedness was there, in the place of justice – wickedness was there. I thought in my heart, ‘God will bring to judgment both the righteous and the wicked, for there will be a time for every activity, a time for every deed.’”

We had not told the priest of the circumstances of Francesca’s death, but the words fit my emotions perfectly. It was the right time for Francesca to go – she would only have lived the rest of her life in constant fear for me, herself, our friends...maybe our family, if it had gone that way. The thought brought fresh tears to my eyes. I was imagining a little boy, with her strange, grey eyes and shade of skin, my mop of black hair and facial structure, sitting on my knee and prodding the tattoos on my neck. I sniffed and wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve. I would not let myself think of what couldhave been; there was nothing I could do about that now.

When the ceremony ended, Nick, Jake, Angel and I bore the coffin on our shoulders to the hearse. As we walked out of the church, a song played us out quietly. It was called Bright Eyesby Simon and Garfunkel. It was not something that I would have picked myself, but I remembered driving back home with Francesca, when she had said, quite spontaneously:

“Y’know, Will...I know I’m only twenty-two, and I’ve got all my life to lead...but, when it’s my turn to move on to the next place, and they’re carrying out my coffin, I want to be taken out toBright Eyes. Because my eyes are the only thing that stand out to myself.”

It was so typically her to say something like that. Whenever I tried to point out her other features that stood out to me – her overall, natural beauty, her laugh, her bravery – she seemed to shut herself off, determined to think that only her opinion was right. The lyrics were very fitting though, giving a tiny insight into the grief that I was left with, and the denial that she really had left this world forever.

“Bright eyes, burning like fire/Bright eyes, how can you close and fail?/How can the light that burned so brightly/Suddenly burn so pale?/Bright eyes.”

We reached the hearse, and placed her coffin inside. It weighed less than it should have done, but I tried not to remind myself of the reasons why that was true. All six of us then piled into the car behind. Jess held my hand, trying to comfort me, all the way to the cemetery. I smiled at her gratefully. The silence between the five of us was suffocating; I wanted to talk about anything, and try to forget reality for a second or two. I wanted to pretend that I was going to wake up from a very realistic nightmare, and Francesca was going to be sleeping soundly next to me, and I would be able to cuddle next to her and forget it all. It was a good thirty minute drive to the cemetery; it felt more like thirty years.

The cemetery was a very tranquil place – the only sounds being made were the melancholy singing of the birds in the expanse of trees surrounding the boundaries and the crunch of the white gravel underneath our shoes as we climbed out of the car. The drivers of the hearse opened the back door and helped us lift the coffin onto our shoulders. We trudged down the path to the far corner of the cemetery. Thankfully it was only small, and so my shaking knees managed to handle the strain. The priest was waiting for us, next to the hole that was about to become Francesca’s final resting place.

The four of us lay the coffin on top of two pieces of green belt. I cut out much of what the priest said after that – something about Francesca being a lovely friend to us all and about how she was now in her rightful place with ‘God’. I tried my best to keep calm at that – for one thing, he didn’t even know her. All he knew was what I had told him about her. And her rightful place was notin some coffin; it was with me.

The people who had been driving the hearse and our car then gently lowered Francesca’s dark wood bed into the never-ending hole beneath it. The priest continued rambling, blessing her and all that. He then invited the five of us to throw in a handful of soil – something I have never understood, but suddenly felt the need to do. Jess moved first, her tiny hand fumbling with the dirt. She got hold of some and threw it in. It landed on the wood harshly, making a thudding noise.

“I’m sorry, Fran,” she whispered. “I really am.”

She sniffed as she turned away, burying her face in Nick’s neck. Jake and Angel followed her example and throwing in their own offerings of earth and words of sympathy. I waited for a couple of minutes before I stepped forward, throwing a large spray of dirt into the grave. The priest moved forward and made a sign of the cross above the darkness.

“And today we send off Francesca Giordano to be with God for the glory of eternity. May she rest in peace.”

I assumed that thatwas the end of the ceremony. The priest moved around the grave, avoiding my eyes. I think he was unused to such intimate funerals. I guess such a small congregation had made things more difficult on all accounts. The others hung back for a moment, waiting for the drivers to turn away. Angel appeared at my right hand side and nudged me gently.

“We’re goin’ back to the car...we’ll give you a few minutes on your own...” He half-smiled, meaning to make me brighten up slightly. I nodded.

“Thanks.”

He nodded once, and turned back towards the others, leading them back to the car without another word. Their footsteps faded away, leaving me with only my thoughts and the weeping birds. I stood, peering into the shadows of the grave. My eyes were hazy, my tears finally spilling over onto my cheeks. I swiped at them with my back of my hand, trying to calm down so that I could speak, hoping that, if there was an afterlife, that Francesca would be able to hear me.

“I’m sorry, Fran,” I sobbed, stilling trying to dry my eyes. “I wanted to be brave for you today, but I can’t no more...I wish we’d had more time together, wish we could have been together longer than we were – three days was just not enough. I’m not even sure if forever would have been...”

I stuck my hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out two rings. They were identical, plain gold bands – wedding rings. I had been to the jewellers yesterday and bought them. The attendant had seemed very surprised that I hadn’t brought anyone with me, but when I had explained what had happened, he was more than helpful, and had even engraved them both for free. They both read 7/20/07on the inlay – the date that we had first met. I tossed one into the darkness, hearing it land with a metallic thud. The other I slipped onto my left hand ring finger. I was expecting it to feel strange, seeing as I’m not normally one for wearing any form of ring, and yet it felt completely natural. I looked back into the grave and carried on talking, my voice still bubbled with tears.

“I know we didn’ talk about the future much...but I think this would’ve been part of it. You...you completed me, Fran. Now I’m without you, I don’treally know what I’ll do. But, with these rings...well, I’m sayin’ that I’m yours forever. Maybe, if you can hear this, you’ll come back to me in dreams or somethin’...Mrs. Francis.”

I stepped away from the crevice then, rubbing underneath my eyes once again with the back of my hand, and began the long journey to the car and the rest of my life.

***

That’s it. That is the story of me and Francesca Giordano. Two years down the line, and I still think about her every day. Sometimes I walk down the alley where we had our fateful collision and run my fingers along the wall, just to see if any of her presence is still hiding in the walls. I’m disappointed every time, and usually end up sobbing, but I still go. I take flowers to the grave every couple of weeks, and just sit and talk to the headstone. I tell her what’s been going on in my life, and how the other four are. Other times I just sit and read what’s engraved on the headstone itself.

“Here lies Francesca Giordano, who was taken from us on July 23rd 2007, aged 22yrs. Free at last.”

When the fans found out, other offerings started being brought too. Some of the people who had met her before the show I had taken her to made a book with photos they had taken with her, and written messages to both Francesca herself and to me, and gave it to me when they saw me at another show in Seattle. The thought touched me so much that I cried.

Nothing will ever replace Francesca. She was my other half, and I was lucky to have had her for even three days. I am thankful for that, but the selfish side of me still craves for more. The man who took her away from me has done great evil; the man who gave the order has done even greater evil. Maybe one day I will find it in myself to forgive them, but until then I will mourn my Francesca and love her till the ends of the earth.

Free at last, free at last – God Almighty, she’s free at last.