#fridayflash "His Father's Funeral"

His Father’s Funeral

His father’s body lay upon the stacks of wood. Each step the death priests took made his shoulders droop. A drum pounded out a steady beat.

Step, droop, beat.

He reached over, his small hand trying to take his mother’s beside him.

She smacked his hand away. The sting just tingled. It couldn’t compete with the ache in his ten-year-old heart.

“Mother?” His voice lifted the question, but cold eyes—not a teardrop sparkled within them—focused upon him.

The death priests lifted the torches to the firebowl.

“Phoebus, your father died because he was weak. His daimon rejected him.” Her voice had hushed to a sharp whisper. He glanced around, but no one heard her words except for him.

Step, droop, beat.

The fiery torches went from the firebowl to the pyre. His eyes filled with tears, and they trickled down his face and dripped upon his boots.

“Now stand up straight, don’t snivel for the dead.”

With eyes closed and tears still dampening his cheeks, he straightened his shoulders.

It did nothing for the pain. The loss. His breath held in his chest until he thought he would burst under the pressure, or pass out.

When he opened his eyes, smoke obscured his father’s body, and he could almost pretend he wasn’t dead and gone.

Almost.

Step, droop, beat.