Pencils, Dust, and Imperfection

Adrienne and I caught the first plane to Minneapolis the very next day.

We left Joey and Jakob with my mother because they didn't know Adrienne's mom very much at all. I never really realized that they never saw her until then, and it made me feel guilty; so I can't even imagine how poorly Adie must've felt.

I was feeling strange lately. I mean, I was feeling good, so that made me feel strange. the ubiquitous voices of Christian and Gloria hadn't been terrorizing my brain since Adrienne informed me of her mother's death. It was extremely weird, though, because I knew the voices were real; I knew this wasn't a dream, so I can't really feel good about feeling good.

I was beginning to quiz every little thing I did. I was trying to discover the reason why the voices came, and why they left. I didn't know if the auditory hallucinations were intermittent
or if they had disappeared all together. Whichever, I just knew I needed to know how.

Part of me wishes I would've confessed everything to Tre like I almost did a few days ago. A part of me wanted to tell Adrienne everything while we sat on the plane, but I couldn't. I didn't want to acknowledge this insanity, and I didn't want to worry anyone...

I woke up, and it was half past three. The liquor I had drank was sitting on the dresser next to a note from the wife. It read:

I went to the church to help set things up.
I tried to wake you, but you wouldn't budge.
I hope you sleep well, though. I know you need it.
Call me when you wake up so I know you're alive.
Funeral starts at 6, so be there by 5:30?
I love you, Billie. I know things haven't been great, and you've been distant, but I know we'll be, OK.

Love,
80

I chuckled at her naivete as I crumbled up the paper and tossed it in the garbage. I rolled my eyes as I noticed dress clothes were hanging by the closet; the wife had them all ready like I was a child.

Armstrong's an idiot for dealing with this cunt.

I lit up a cigarette after popping a Valium. That bitch Gloria seemed to be gone, and I didn't hear Armstrong whining., but my head still ached. Whatever. I'm going to a goddamn funeral; listening to crying twats and a blind minister should turn my aching brain into sludge. That's the only reason I decided to get off my ass and go. This fuckin' funeral was more like pain killer; the stupidity would numb my brain.

I put on the clothes the wife indicated I wore, and drove towards the church. I was hungover, and I was tempted to vomit in the backseat so Gloria or Armstrong would have to smell it later.

I arrived at the damn church in downtown Minneapolis. I walked inside, and was greeted by the wife, who sat beside me in the pew. The wife's sister walked up and started reading a eulogy. It was rhyming, though, and I realized that it was worked into a song.

I decided not to sing along to such filth

Christian, sing the eulogy.
You need to learn a lesson.

A lesson of what?

Humility.

I smirked, but the wife didn't notice. The bitch was already crying; it was annoying me.

Everything annoys you.

Including you, so get the fuck away.

We share this subconscious.

I never got a gold star for sharing.

You're an ass.

You're got a nice one.

I'm a figment of Billie's subconscious!
I don't literally have an ass!

A man can imagine, though.

Fuck off.

Whoa, you upgraded to swearing.
I'm a bit proud, Gloria.

She didn't respond, and the wife's sister finished the eulogy. The wife and I walked up to view her mother.

She looked like shit - being dead and all - but everyone kept saying how good she looked; how peaceful she seemed. I think that's a hunk of crap.

I had been smoking a cigarette. I tapped the ashes and they fell upon the red rug by the casket. I smiled a little when the tip of the cancer stick burned my finger because I got a brilliant idea.

I dropped the cigarette. The plan automatically back fired when the wife saw my fingers leave the cigarette. We both saw it fall onto her mother's clothes and ignite her deceased body, but I was the only one amused by the false spontaneous combustion.

The wife screamed Armstrong's name in horror as the flames first ignited. She pushed me out of the way firmly while she and a few others tried to stop the flames. They finished, and before you knew it, the mom's whole body was scorched.

I just smiled and enjoyed the show.

Others scrambled up to the casket to help, and the fire was eventually put out.

The wife turned to me in tears, a horrified and beyond furious expression painted on her face. She looked like she was going to say something, but she quietly walked out of the church instead.

I really didn't care how pissy she was. I was a pyro maniac, and I just got awesome seats to a human flame-pit. I guess Armstrong knows where 'Christian's Inferno' comes from now.