It was a fitting day for a funeral service. The rain provided a constant hum to the mourning friends and family indoors, tethering them to reality.

The casket was open. The daughter had been in no accident; she had no scars. Her direct family felt the most pain. The mother remained in the common area. She was dressed in the extravagant trappings of a glum Victorian era queen, seeking the consolation of her guests. Her idea of a funeral resembled a public event, complete with food, drink, and entertainment, if you will. She prepared for the evening with slideshows and speeches, which she delivered throughout the night. Her dialogues had been flawlessly scripted. She rehearsed her fabricated tears during the weeks leading up; every talking point, every framed photo, every meaningful glance was calculated.

The father was alone in an abusive marriage. His long curly hair and grimy glasses painted the image of an unkempt man, neglected by those he loved. He hid himself in his study, away from the crowds. For weeks, he had tried desperately to convince himself that he was not to blame for his daughter’s death. At heart, he knew he knew he shouldn’t have let anyone, even his wife, delay him from contacting the authorities; he was a true coward. His glossy eyes replayed a single memory:

He had stepped into the kitchen, only for a moment or so, to find his wife making tomato soup for their ill daughter. She had her back turned to him, whistling along to her favorite tunes in a maniacal manner. Without a glance, she reached her hand to a top cabinet, and pulled out a bottle labeled “Biocide.” She tipped in two drops before screwing on the cap and returning the bottle to its cabinet, almost second nature.

It was a fitting day for a funeral service. The sirens could already be heard through the rain.