It's Your Funeral

So three days in, and it's time for my funeral. I can't help thinking I should have been out of here by now, but I'm still here. What is he waiting for ?
The reason I know it's my funeral today is because the man down here has made a point of telling me. He seems to have some sort of twisted desire to make me feel as bad as possible. Maybe it's because he knows I'm just pretending - kind of playing dead - that I wouldn't really be here in normal circumstances - that I kind of manouevred myself into being here a bit early, just to make a point. I think that's pissed him off a bit, he likes to be taken seriously - so he's making a point of telling me all the things I don't want to hear.
So it's my funeral. So I think I ought to be there to watch it. He comes up there with me, he says it could be a bit of a laugh. He's got a very sad sense of humour, I think.

There I am, all stretched out on a bed of flowers. They've fixed most of the damage from cutting me up, but I don't look quite right. The make-up just isn't me, and as for the hair-do - I wouldn't be seen dead looking like that - which is a bit of a shame, because I am. God knows who did that lot - it really, really doesn't suit me. Looks like someone has taken a degree in face painting and failed - I look like a parody of a woman - like something a bloke would dream up for Lolita or something.
I mean, bright blue eye shadow on top of really pale foundation and pinky-red lipstick. Haven't looked like that since I was - oh, 12 or so and borrowed my mum's stuff to make me look grown up. Crap, really crap - and what have they done to my hair - they've let the trainee do it - I haven't got curls and the just showered look really doesn't look right on me. But this is what they've done. Lucky they haven't put streaks in, I guess, or I could end up looking like a real dog's dinner, instead of just embarrassing as a fashion icon. And then there's my nails. I never, ever did them that colour. Not ever. Why did he let someone do that to me ? Is that how he sees me? A bimbo or tart with no taste ? And this is how they'll remember me - looking awful. I really, really want to slap someone for making me look like that.
I suppose at least they've got my clothes right. They look something like. He must have told them what I wanted to look like on my wedding day - cream dress to show off my tan, gold round my neck and in my hair and a really nice pair of Jimmy Choos that would, if I was standing up, make me look a lot taller. Very expensive and classy they look too, just a shame I have to be dead to wear them. How did he know I was going to wear them for the wedding ? I only bought them a week or so back, haven't put them on properly yet.
So that bit's right, at least, but I don't want to be the bride of death - I want to still be alive and stand up and make them adore me - like a real goddess ( even though I'm not really) - this is killing me ( yes, I know)
Anyway, there he is, big black rings round his eyes, looking like he's been crying for ever. Heartbroken. That's OK. That's what I'd want.
But, and this really gets me, she's there too - Penny the slapper - dressed to kill and draped all over him. If I actually liked her, I'd say she looked well - quite cute really, in an abandoned sort of way, but I don't. She shouldn't be there. Not at all. It's my day, not hers, the cow.

The service starts. They play my favourite music - not anything he did, thank god - don't think he'd be up to it - and the way he looks right now, he'd probably summon all the most miserable animals in the world and they'd all sit around and moan for days, or it would be all the creatures that go for dead things. Like worms, maggots and flies - that would not be nice. At least it shows he listened - he's got it spot on. Brings a bit of a lump to my throat when it's playing though, all my favourite tunes - and I can't listen to them properly.
So eventually, things get on to the speaking bits - and who's up first ? He is. He doesn't say much, just thanks everybody for being there to support him in his hour of need, and asks them all to remember how happy I made him. It's quite touching, in a way, if I wasn't me, I'd feel sorry for him - he obviously doesn't know what to do about it. Then he says that a very special friend has asked to say something - about how much I meant to her, how much of a role model I was - and, you guessed it - it's the slapper queen herself. She's dropped Sappho for something she says is really "personal" - it's some pseudy crap poetry she made up for the occasion - really, really makes you cringe it's that coy and clingy - and then she wants to tell everyone how important it is for them ( all his friends) to support him and care for him now I've gone - so he can move on, and forget about the wounds in his heart while still remembering the happy times. At this point, I start being sick. I'm finding it really hard not to throw up - I actually want to kill her too, but nausea takes over. Excuse me, but he's promised to rescue me, not remember me and he's supposed to risk his life to come and get me, not forget the hurt of my dying "untimely". I don't want him to get over me, to move on, I want him to come and get me out of here, like he said he would, to move mountains like he promised and go to the gates of hell to bring me back. I'm there, after all, so he should at least be packing his bags for the journey.
So at this point, I really, really lose it - all twisted up and ready to explode inside - I decide I've got to have some sort of impact. Let him know I'm still around and expect things of him. I know I can't actually touch anything for real, but I focus my mind - I've got so much anger building up - I just want to lash out at anything and anyone - especially her - and then kerboom! the vase with my funeral flowers in explodes - bits of glass, water and freesias and lilies all over the place. That's it. So now what - I make all the flowers on the bed I'm lying on start dying off, and really quickly too, so everyone notices - and last, but not least, the place fills up with wasps. Seemed the only things to conjure up today, he knows how much I hate them. They sting a couple of guests, but they miss out on the queen. Damn it. Anyway she runs out screaming and guess what, he follows her. All is definitely not well there. So now what ?

Mr H is wetting himself. Says he hasn't seen anything so funny since - oh - when a certain lady got bitten by a snake, and died. Oh ha ha.
That stops me. Lose all the focus on anger and it spins down into a whimper - breaks the pattern I'd built up to. Still feeling sick though.
So a few minutes later, he comes back, they finish the service and they take my body away and bury it in a crypt. I'd really like to make the building fall down, but all the anger's gone - the energy's gone, I just have to accept it for now. That's not a nice feeling, watching yourself shut in with dead people - for a start it's dark and very smelly, and there's no-one talk to.
It's obvious that what has happened has shaken him up a bit - he's muttering something to a friend about making promises and that maybe this is an omen, he ought to do something, but he still hasn't set off for down here, has he? Get packing I say, if he could hear me that is.
Anyway it's time for me to go back down - the man is insisting. No choice there then. Would like to say it was fun, but it wasn't. Not at all. So now what ?