by Molly McGill
Dear Nellie,
I woke up this morning, and for a moment I forgot. Sunlight feather light on my face, I could hear the faint call of the seagulls you hated, my hair tickled my nose and made it wrinkle. I reached out to curl my arm around you, but your side of the bed was cold, and I remembered.
It curled its way upwards, snaking its way in between my ribs, choking my throat, and making itself home there. I tried to shake it off and pulled myself out of bed.
I remember you once told me you wanted people to wear bright colours at your funeral. You were drunk and giggling bent in half with the force of it. I was helplessly laughing too. Your laughter is was infectious like that.
‘Anna, no could you imagine!’ You hissed out a laugh through your teeth; ‘We could do fancy dress!’ I remember picturing it and dissolving into hysterics that made me crumple onto the pub floor.
I put a bright yellow ribbon in my hair to honour you, I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. If I arrived dressed like I said I would, your mother would kick me out. She never liked me probably ask me to leave. The ribbon is the most I could get away with, but I knew even that would be met with death glares, scorn, bitterness, disapproval. But apart from that, I wore all black as is standard.
You hated traditional stuff like that; White weddings, chocolate on Valentine’s Day and most of all, The pageantry of funerals, particularly the Revelare. If it were up to me… we would have a party celebrating you, with your fancy dress idea and laughter and GOOD stories, KIND stories. Then I wouldn’t feel like this. Why didn’t I just do that?
I sat through that whole funeral with my mouth firmly shut. They all called you Darnella, and I knew you would hate it. The only reason I made it through was that old bitch, that homophobic old twat your mother, had placed me firmly between herself and your brother and every time I so much as shifted, she would lock eyes with me. ‘You have to sit here and suffer’ That’s what I bet she was thinking. She made me remember that I need to be here.
We get to the end, to the bit neither of us wanted. The Revelare. I see now why you didn’t want this bit at your funeral, but they set up that screen anyway and showed the whole church the footage you never wanted anyone to see.
People always say that The Revelare makes it easier to grieve, when someone’s faults and darkest secrets are displayed in front of you it is meant to make you feel easier about them being gone.
The logic is solid I suppose, but I really wish I could have held on to my rose-tinted version of you for a little while longer at least.
It starts of easy with your teenage years, but I know you got up to trouble when you were younger. It was disgusting, painful uncomfortable to see you drunk like that when I knew how far I thought you had evolved as a person. Your mother got a stiff look on her face at the photo of you passed out on her fluffy white rug. I remember you telling me about this moment Nellie, your lowest moment you said. You liar.
Then it got to your twenties. I knew you had to do stuff to survive, you didn’t like talking about it and I respected that. I would have liked a fucki bit of a warning that you used to sell drugs. Especially since you knew how I feel about
Your brother started crying around that time, he would have been too young to remember your worst years. I didn’t cry though. At first.
All that I could forgive, Nellie. You told me she was a friend.
When it got to the more recent photos, I had my guard down, and it started with a punch to the gut. Text messages of you telling me you were working late and then photos of you in a nightclub with friends I’ve never met.
We got to the night you died when you told me you were visiting your brother. I didn’t ask why you were going in the wrong direction; I didn’t want to know. The truth is Nellie, you were nowhere near his house, and I knew that. Who was she?.
The Revelare is supposed to make it easier.
Knowing that didn’t make it easier, Nellie, I still love you, but it doesn’t make it easier.
Love
Yours
Anna
Molly McGill is a writer from County Derry, Ireland. She has a bachelor’s degree in film studies and creative writing from John Moore’s University and has a passion for writing and reading weird horror fiction.
Oof. Amazing. I’ll be thinking about it for a while. Definitely.