Broken Stars; tie it up

He's not dead.

She turns this thought round and round on its head, letting light filter through it this way and that. It's not a hard concept to understand really. Just a simple one-two as her fingers tear the program to shreds. It's not, is it? Nah—she's alright. She takes this concept in her hands and weaves it into a string—pulls it tight across her throat.

Tie-it-up. Lie-it-up. One, two, three..

Hmph—here's why…

First of all, they'd been here plenty of times. Had a funeral—she'd been asked to do the eulogy. 1, 2, 3 times.

Not once did she do it.

Not once was he actually dead. Came and showed up a few days later, like, "What'd I miss?" They'd been so sure.

Not once did she do it.

There was always this nice, cheesy little oil portrait with those big, red eyes shining off into the distance and him all majestic and looking like he could invent a toast-making iPod made of soda crackers. Jeez, that painting. She'd hung it up in Tifa's bathroom when no one was looking. And now it was out again—the bathroom must have been lonely. You know those portraits, the kind that all the old, old people are in—except, their wrinkles have mysteriously disappeared and I could have sworn that her eyes were brown before.

Pitiful.

She's not having any of it.

Lies.

A big, fat pack of iPod-toasted, soda-crackin' lies.

Here's why—he sleeps in coffins.

The keyword being: freaking sleeps. (Read also: still breathing.)Watching his chest rise and fall. Still breathing. Not dead.

Of course she isn't fighting off the dry sobs while she rips that little program with its list of songs and speeches and Bible verses and his name, his name, his name. Of course she isn't.

Here's why—

It's too small.

That God-forsaken rectangle of wood. Is too damn small. He wouldn't fit. He's too tall. He's too big. He's too much above her… And, Leviathan, his feet.

The coffin is too small.

He isn't in there.

He can't be.

And besides, how do you fight off screams that aren't coming? Which they aren't. At all.

She shakes. Drops the little pieces of the verses and the hymns and his face all over the floor. And she stares that stupid oil painting in the face and tells him silently—you are not dead.

The painting looks none too convinced.

But since when did oil and canvas know squat about squat, anyway?

She cries. Sobs. Begs. God, please.

He is not dead.

She flips the thought over tongue. Ties it into a pretty, little bow. Does it up in her hair. (One, two, three.) And for a second she tastes a tiny bit of hope in the back of her throat. And it's gone before she realizes.

Another second passes. One.

And a-two.

And he lies in a too-small coffin and she lies to herself.

And a-three..

And she's still there. And he's still not.