"Are you ready to go?"

I shake my head but say nothing. Mom shoots me one of her I-know-you're-not-okay-but-I'm-going-to-pretend-everything-is-fine smiles and fixes my hair. It doesn't stay. And she doesn't understand.
              I'm not ready for this.
                         I will never be ready for this.
                                     But I have no other choice. 

Mom leaves the car first. I follow, but only because it's hot and the air-conditioner is no longer on and the air is stifling after only a few moments. Outside isn't much better. The fact that I'm dressed from head to toe in black doesn't help. But I'm not the only one. Everyone around me is dressed in black.

Black suits. 
      Black dresses. 
            Black shoes. 
                  Black ties. 

A sea of black. And I'm stuck in the middle of it.

The moment I step out of the car, I feel like all eyes are on me, watching, speculating. Blaming. Even my friends-- or who I thought were my friends-- don't greet me with anything more than harsh, distant glances. I try to wave. They turn away and pretend I don't exist. I deserve every bit of it, too. It's my fault that everyone is here.

It's my fault he's dead.