It was the first official funeral that I ever attended and everything about that day seemed melancholic. A different kind of melancholic, it was a feeling I could not explain. The sky was dark – gray. The grief in the air hung like a thick wool blanket, wrapped around our bodies. The whole atmosphere affected me, from the all-black outfits to the cries of my family members.
It was actually my grandma’s funeral. I still couldn’t come to terms with the reality of what I had actually witnessed the night she was murdered. Yes! she was murdered and by someone very close to her.
It felt pretty awkward being at her funeral, knowing fully well that the person who had murdered her had not yet been brought to justice. I couldn’t just tell anyone it was my father who had suffocated his own mother while she was asleep. It was absolutely unbelievable. Quite alright! She was critically ill but it sure didn’t seem like ‘Euthanasia’.
All of a sudden my father showed up at the funeral and sat quietly. At that moment, I noticed that the chairs were actually my grandma’s favorite colour: red, a blood-stained red. And then someone touched me, I turned around and saw my dead grandma. The hairs on my arms suddenly stood on end. I felt my spine become cold as ice. Black out.