The Death of a Great Figure

There is no mistaking who it is that lies within that softly padded box. Beneath your threadbare suit and fear stained shirt, the scars that lattice across your body ate and burn at the sight of the one who gave them to you. You feel the cross she once carved into your back open, and begin to weep its own bloody testament. Your vision swings as you turn from the face of death and find your arm grasped by the funeral director. His hand moves and you move with it, unable to stand against the unyielding strength of his simplest gesture. It can't be her, that's not right, it's not fair. One hundred and sixty pairs of misty

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