A/N: I thought I'll diverge from my usual and experiment. (Not to mention I recently fell in love with this show - I can't believe I never watched it before). As usual constructive comments are always welcome!

Disclaimer: The following is a piece of fanfiction. No money is made off this. There is no copyright infringement intended; all characters, concepts and backgrounds originate from the unfulfilled potential of "Firefly" and belongs to Joss Whedon and company.

The mother wanted to hold a private ceremony. He told her no.

What have we got to hide, he asked. As usual all his questions were rhetorical ones; the mother wasn't supposed to answer back. Why should we let those toadies wonder, he continues, ignoring his own inclusion within that group. We'll put on a good show.

She accepts then. Inside, the mother lapses into a coma. Perhaps the mother even dies, who knows. Is that a question? But she wouldn't know. Instead, she knows all about putting on a show.

Still, it was a closed casket funeral.

It was very proper and extravagant affair. There was a well-to-do crowd of friends and distinguished MD's, six pallbearers to carry the dead mother's dead son, business executives, and even some government official. The parents were equally decorous. She was sewn into a stiff black dress; he was constrained in a black suit with a white armband on the sleeve. She dabbed at her dry eyes with a handkerchief, so as not to ruin her powder. He stared stonily at the large polished mahogany casket in the centre. The box dominated the ceremony, raised above them like some monument on a sacrificial stone. All together, a very fine show indeed. It only needed some nice grey drizzling rain to complete the scene. How terribly sad. A promising young man, killed in an accident in the prime of his life.

The priest drones on. The eulogy passes over them like a fog. Hollow, pretty words, spun over them like fine webs, ensnaring, trapping, muffling.

She had a wide black umbrella, ready to be snapped open, but the sun remained stubbornly shining. When the funeral dirge was being played, a sparrow chirped. How dare it mocks death! But the parents were indifferent to that song. Either they pretended ignorance, or they simply couldn't hear. They stopped their ears to voiceless screams. They refused to listen. The silence is easier to bear.

It was also a very cold and emotionless affair. After all, what was the cause for mourning? Their son was dead to them. The father-that-was had made sure of that especially. The will had been updated, entries in the family bible had been viciously scratched out, the envelopes were sealed, the file was closed, and the single candle was doused. Shut, done, over with, finished, denied. Just like their memories. The casket remained closed.

Dabbing, hiding behind her handkerchief, the mother dies. With prideful stubbornness he convinces himself of the end. The father is banished. The parents are exiled, ostracized, left to starve in the wilderness, their tender cries unheeded. That humanity is pushed away. Good. They save face. Where's the path? Where's the sunlight? Oh well. They saved face, that's all that matters. Right, that's how they'll face this disaster; by turning away from its existence. Their son's gone from them.

It was a closed casket funeral. Nobody asked questions. Nobody asked for the answers. Would they even know, themselves? The sparrow sang, but they were unseeing, unquestioning, blind, deaf. Twin statues, both of them, worthy of their name, their precious reputation. The others only saw a good show.