The blazing sun in a gentle blue sky permeated everything in sight with its light, short of the burdened hearts of those in procession.
Dress shoes in shiny black crunched gravel as they moved closer to the hole six feet deep, the only other noise being the huffing of those under the casket and the cheery chirping of songbirds. Sweat glistened on foreheads and surely yellowed pressed white shirt collars.
The train stopped just short of the site, those following gradually congealing behind.
Fancy fans waved a gentle breeze on those with makeup done all too precious to cry off. Once all were settled in their positions in the searing heat, those strong enough to lower the casket reloaded their cargo and proceeded to sink it below the lips of the grave.
Tears mixed with the sweat on Jacob's cheeks and then subsequently within the fibers of his dress shirt sleeve as he stood in a heated rage, trembling with thoughts of the earlier viewing.
Logan looked so pretty all dolled up. Short ebony hair shone darker than the black of the conservative black dress that flowed past the ankles and slim wrists. Curved eyelashes seemed longer than ever with dark shadow behind heavily layered mascara.
Jacob stood casket-side, fingers barely even finding the strength to grip the casket's lip. He stared, crestfallen at Logan's still form. Too young to be a widower, but the years of relationship they shared caused his heart to ache and strain.
Everyone in sight seemed to move as if waterlogged and the only conversation that could be heard was in hushed tones. The people most proximal to the casket aside from Jacob were Logan's parents, Beatrice and James.
Beatrice had been constantly frowning. Not in a saddened manner, more as if she were dissatisfied with the situation at hand. None could exactly blame her; none too many people around were too familiar with losing a child.
She clung her thin frame onto her husband, standing at his flank as if hiding from the harsh reality of the casket.
James did a well job of being a solid anchor for his wife. His broad shoulders sported his dark head of hair, surely where Logan inherited the genes from. His eyes were sunken in a round face, the sure older resemblance for Logan's rotund cheeks.
Jacob floated back into awareness and picked up on the whispered conversation between his deceased lover's parents.
"...to mention acceptance letters were coming in."
"To think she procrastinated on sending applications. She was always waiting until the last minute."
James acquiesced. "That's true. It's still such a shame."
"Her studies surely could have been better. If they were, we wouldn't have been so stressed," Beatrice added. "Logan was always so introverted. And lazy. It's a good thing she was pretty."
It was at this point Jacob's thoughts strayed from their conversation.
Jacob frowned, not dissimilarly to the one that had been plastered on Beatrice's lips.
The parents had continued their hushed conversation, which Jacob turned to them and proceeded to interrupt.
"Have you two no respect for the dead?" His eyes were smoldering, his lips now twisted into an enraged snarl.
Beatrice and James both looked taken aback. In fact, Beatrice stepped to hide behind her husband even more than she was before.
The whole area had stopped quietly bustling and instead entered a tense silence. All eyes were towards the casket and the three surrounding figures.
"I had asked a question. Have."
Jacob fully turns towards them.
"...You no respect."
His fists travel clenched to his sides.
"First the dress. And the makeup. Logan looks like a plaything."
Their mouths stood agape.
"You know full well this is not what Logan would have wanted. You two? Are despicable." The intensity in his voice heightened with every syllable.
"It's your fault. It is all your guys' fault Logan killed himself."
"That's right. Under these satin sleeves are Logan's slit wrists. Under the body of the dress are the deep stabs he placed there himself. For years. Under your nose." Those in proximity to hear stood as stunned as the parents.
"Why did he kill himself? You. Both of you. Didn't care about him. Didn't care he became more closed off. Didn't care his grades were slipping. Didn't care even if he told you he was trans."
There was an audible set of gasps from the surroundings as James' eyes narrowed.
"You want to know why he cut his hair all those years ago? You want to know why he only wore jeans, and baggy sweatshirts, and why suddenly his chest disappeared? You never asked. Because you never cared."
It almost looked as if James were going to speak up, but Jacob didn't let him in edgewise.
"His mental health slipped. He lived in reclusion because of you two. Logan saw things. Heard voices. He was locked in a paranoid state almost every night as he suffered from insomnia. Nothing was ever done about it and neither of you cared enough to even get him help even if you couldn't provide it yourselves."
"Logan hated you. He lived in fear of the next time he would be scolded. Told he wasn't good enough. He put his everything into trying to impress you guys. He told me constantly that he yearned for when he would be told that you were even remotely proud of him. It never came, and now my one and only is dead because of you."
"But I suppose I don't need to tell you all this. Logan himself addressed his suicide note to you guys and finally got to lay out everything he didn't get to tell you in life."
Jacob withdrew his harsh tone for one more reminiscent. "But I know I would have respected him more than to let him fester in a dress when he's buried. How humiliating. How damning."
Glaring at them with righteous fury, Jacob angrily turned away from James and still withdrawn Beatrice and stormed towards the back of the hall, his blonde head now a simmering dot in the background.
As he looked at the stained glass pane immediately to his side, Jacob's wide eyes poured torrents of tears down his face, chin and neck. Unblinking, he sobbed for his dead boyfriend who never had a chance to live his life.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any and all references to any living persons or other works are purely coincidental.