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Fiction Short Story

by Brian Ross

Eulogy

My husband was an asshole.

Mrs. Henry Barrowman knew what she wanted to say. She had written it on four sides of A4 paper last night. There were so many ways to spell 'hate'. All she had to do now was get up there and tell everybody else. She looked anxiously at her watch and wished they would hurry it along. The Young And The Restless was due to start in half an hour, and she was at least that far away from home.

A pine box was a waste of good craftsmanship as far as she was concerned;  she would have chopped him up and buried him in a shoe box if she thought she could get away with it. Hell, she had been ready to throw his body in the fire even before she had read the will.

Even from beyond the grave he was clouding her day.

Well, if he wanted a coffin he could fucking pay for it himself. As soon as she got home she was going to throw all his shit onto the front lawn and have a yard sale. She wasn't going to be out of pocket so that jerk could have a roof over his head in the afterlife. What she didn't sell she could burn. Either way was good for her.

Now that she was finally free of her hateful, life sucking, bastard, son of a bitch husband, she couldn't believe it. Happy was not the word. She didn't think there was a word for how she felt. When she heard his evil heart stop she damn near had an orgasm, and that was closer than he ever managed during his life.

Emily had been a widow for six whole days, but she had barely even had time to enjoy it because people were still coming up to her and asking how she was holding up. People could be so insensitive at times. There were only so many times she could fake a few tears. It turned her stomach just to think she was pretending to miss that vile prick.

While she was thinking about it she reminded herself to ditch 'Barrowman'. Wearing a dead man's name was creeping her out. First thing in the morning she would call the credit cards, the bank, the fucking video store, and anybody else who knew her as Mrs. and have it all changed. Nobody by that name lives here anymore.

She took the podium when she was called up—a convincing heaviness in her step and what was going to have to pass for grief on her face. No Oscar performance, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. She was just glad she didn't burst out laughing.

The church was quite large yet Emily could not see an empty seat in the house. There were even a few stragglers standing at the far end. Standing! She couldn't believe it. Every one of them was a stranger. Even those faces she recognized were alien in their sorrow.

She wanted to shout and scream and pull her hair out. Had they all taken leave of their senses? This was no saint for Christ's sake; this was her husband—Henry Barrowman. Don't you dare mourn him, and if you must grieve, do it for me—I was the one who put up with his bullshit for fifteen years.

Didn't anybody know him?

Rather than cause a scene she bit down on her lip—so hard that she drew blood and actually did manage a few tears—and had happy thoughts about tomorrow. She felt like a caterpillar; cocooned in a marriage she had never asked for. Now that she had her wings she was ready to fly; take off and leave this old, rotten branch far behind.

The swathe of people below looked up at her expectantly: pale, muted faces against dark costumes. White on black. If they were waiting for something deep and meaningful—for her to shine a torch on their darkness—they were going to be disappointed. Love hurts; get a fucking helmet. That was your profundity right there.

Thanks to the bruise above her right eye she was wearing a little more black than was traditional, and depending on who was asking she had either walked into a doorpost or had fallen down the stairs. Again. It still hurt, but not like in the early days. After the third time she learned how best to take a hit—tricks of the trade—and years of practice applying make-up meant that even a keen eye could miss it if you weren't looking in just the right place.

Part of her wanted to keep the black eye as a promise to herself never to let it happen again, but that would mean being reminded of him every time she looked in the mirror, and that was what today was for—to get rid of the miserable bastard forever. Once he was in the dirt she could wipe her hands clean for good. Henry's olds sat in the front row. As a tear spilled down her father-in-law's cheek he tried to comfort his wife, but loud, wracking sobs doubled her over into her lap. Emily knew right then, at that moment, that everything she wanted to say and had a perfect right to say, would be news to them. Her truth was not necessarily theirs.

Maybe ignorance was bliss after all, because their parental love was pure, while her own love for him was brutal, dirty, and tarnished by abuse; a love bred from fear rather than desire. It had been a long time since she had loved him with a smile.

His parents were good people, which was as desperately confusing as it was sad. How did they end up with an asshole like Henry for a son? Surely they deserved more; then again, parenthood was a lucky dip. Not everybody managed to grab the prize.

She saw every face before her then—sadness painted on every one, and a black cloud above each head. Family and friends alike mourned his passing with genuine affection, as if he had played Jekyll with them but was Hyde for her.

And then there was little Craig, rubbing at his eyes and streaking his cheeks with tears. Four years old and sitting at a damn funeral. What kind of a start to life was that?

Poor kid.

In the sombre light he looked just like his father, and she knew he was laughing at her from the bottom of his box.

Emily Simpson took a deep breath, looked again at the congregation, and cleared her throat. Staring at Craig, she knew she couldn't do it. Not now. Not to her son.

Holding back the tears—but only just—she left her hatred folded in her pocket.

"My husband," she began, "was a good man."


About the Author
Brian Ross is twenty nine and was born under the sunny Australian skies, although he currently lives under the dark Scottish clouds. Current publications both online and print include: Laughout, Skive, Fools Motley, Stephen D. Rogers Presents, and Twisted Dreams, with upcoming appearances in Events Quarterly, Gold Dust, Wild Child, and the Shadow Box Anthology.