Dulcis Mors Mortis

Funerals were an overrated, extreme event for people to cry for themselves and weep over the fact that someone they actually knew was dead. Funerals was a show of hands as to who "cared" about the person of misfortune. They were sad, they were fake. I hated them.

But that didn't stop me from going to Fisher's.

Most were rich businessmen. He'd always been the one to succeed. His boss talked about how the two short years of working with Fisher and how was so grand, how Fisher had so much potential. That's what it was, some game of who could make the best speech, who could show they loved Fisher the most.

I knew who won that game. I held Tate's hand tight, refusing to let her go. I wasn't one for emotional or physical touch, but that dreary grey day was the day I held her close, because we both knew that deep down out of everyone in the tight, claustrophobic room, that the four sitting in the back looking emotionless were the ones who loved Fisher Karston the most.

We were selfish. I was selfish. But I knew the truth. I knew Fisher's look in my eyes when I told him I got into Columbia, how I was actually going somewhere in my life. I knew how excited he was to get out into the real world, using connections of people known nationally to get in somewhere impossible without so much of an associates degree. He was a true genius, gifted with words and a brain that withstood alcohol and drugs. We all knew how accomplished he'd end up, because he was beautiful, the key that locked us all in place.

I saw my best friends for the first time since high school. Each of us acted as if we'd never left each other, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, hand in hand, praying that we'd get through the awful event. It was just like life years ago with so little responsibilities but so many more emotions. We felt like it was us against the world in this event of darkness, drawing us back into the pits we'd just escaped.

What probably got to me the most was wondering if the mason jar kept in my dorm at Columbia was Fisher's. I remember how he'd told me he secretly hoped it was, and I had a feeling it really was, because Fisher was so smart, so clever that he'd make sure I was the one who got to see what happened in his head.

In all honesty, I wouldn't have been surprised if his death was something he'd written on one of those papers as he smirked at me from across the table.