We're Concentrating on Falling Apart.

I swirled the deep purple nail varnish onto my nails, not going for the black option. My guitar sat untouched in the corner of the room, dust forming on the spruce surface. The strings needed tuning desperately, but I didn’t have the heart to touch the guitar. It was mine and Caroline’s thing. Today was Caroline’s funeral.

I hadn’t been the same since her death. I tried to tell myself that it was quick and she barely felt it, but the world didn’t feel the same without her, it just carried on in normal life. It didn’t feel right. The left side of the room had her bed in it, the silk cover still untouched, after weeks. All her things were still placed on the desk, where she’d left them.
Her books were placed in random places, and her wall was covered in personal pictures; pictures of me, our dad and her photography. She was taking it for GCSE, and was all set.
I straightened my cocktail dress, not actually mine; I’d never had a thing for the ‘in fashion’. It was Caroline’s. I wore it because I’d wanted to have some part of Caroline with me, so part of her that reassured me, when I needed her most. I’d often wear bracelets, or t-shirts of hers.

My dad called me from downstairs, his voice ringing from grief, bouncing up the walls. . I looked myself up and down, from the ballet flats, up my flower patterned legs from the tights and past my torso. My hair was tied back, the wild curls tamed into a bobble.

I turned out of my room, avoiding the low beams and running my fingers down the flower wall paper, my fingertips feeling the rough surface. My feet took the familiar path downstairs, bumping my shoulder on the wall, and feeling pain shoot down my arm. I’d done that every day that I’d lived in this old house. Which was for as long as I could remember.

My dad was sitting in his arm chair, the frayed edges sticking up in random places. His head was in his hands, and I could hear broken sobs coming from his throat. I walk slowly up to him, and place my hand on his shoulder, awkwardly rubbing his back. I’d never been one for affection or comforting.

He ran his fingers through his hair, letting it bounce back softly. He groaned softly when I tugged at his elbow, crinkling his pressed shirt.

My grandma was standing there in a sensible deep blue dress, frills around the edges of her sleeves and collar. Her old withered hands were shaking from grief.
I took the two of them in mine and kiss her tear stained cheek, she was as close to Caroline as I was. Nobody was wearing black, Caroline said once she wanted a bright, happy funeral, for a change to the system, nobody was smiling.

My grandma linked hands with my dad, obviously trusting me enough to be able to stand independently. As the whole family left the living room, I saw Caroline’s best friend. His clear brown eyes were full of unshed tears, and his face was clearly showing pain.
I left the group and patted his arms. I couldn’t tell if the goose-bumps on his arms were from my touch, or the November air. He said “Thanks, Sky.” and slumped off on his own.
I stared after him and walked the shaded route to the church entrance. Everybody was already seated and I moved to the front by my grandma. The father was standing at the front, in the way of a picture of Caroline. She was smiling and I recognize it’s from her fifteenth birthday. She was wearing her butterfly clip that grandma and I had made for her. It was sapphire blue and glittered. Just the way she liked things.

Her coffin was opened and I suppressed sobs and sat down beside my grandma. I tugged at the notebook necklace that was against my collarbone awkwardly.

Everything that mattered in my life before didn’t seem to matter anymore, nothing felt the same. Not the music I played, or the things I said. I was in a daze, like I was in a bubble where nobody could reach me, my bubble of grief. I defiantly needed a hug.
The next second my grandma had her arm on my elbow and was towing me briskly out of the church. My grandma can walk fast, and has an iron grip, so not somebody you’d mess with.

I was in one of my ‘feeling-sorry-for-myself’ moods, defiantly not good. Normally I would go and play my guitar, or go out for a walk in the woods, but I didn’t ever want to do that, so it was defiantly bad. But I wouldn’t cry.
My grandma sat me down on the name engraved bench and held me in her arms, letting all the tears that I said I wouldn’t cry stain her dress.