Angels Deserve to Die

Maybe someone had slipped something into my drink at some point before the funeral. I felt...funny. I felt nothing. I didn’t understand the feeling of nothing. I did, though, in a way. It felt like death – or at least what I assumed death would feel like. It felt like my mind had melted into some sort of disgusting goo, and my body was slowly following suit.

When I made it home, I sat at my kitchen table for what seemed like hours. Being immobile seemed to make it worse. My mother always used to tell me that being active when I was upset would make it better. I always just thought it was a lie that she made up to keep from having to listen to me sobbing and complaining.

I ended up laying my head against the table. I willed myself to fall asleep, to get some sort of physical – and maybe mental if I didn’t have a nightmare – rest. But I couldn’t. Maybe even wouldn’t. I don’t know. There was a knock on the door maybe ten minutes later, anyway. It wouldn’t have been worth it.

I fought to pull myself out of my seat, and was surprised when I succeeded. When I opened the door, I found a friend holding a single, wilted dandelion that he’d pulled from the wild weeds growing in my front yard. It was a sweet gesture, and I think I felt something akin to happiness for a split second.

He didn’t speak, he just stepped inside and handed me the flower. I didn’t know what to do, so I stood there just staring. He looked upset, probably because he knew me. He knew how I felt, so he reached out and hugged me.

He just kept whispering, “It’s gonna be alright.”