I stand among his family dressed in a black dress and veil. It's been a week since Jackson died, and I've felt nothing but relief since. While I do feel sorrow for his family, I'm glad to be free of him. He made my life a living hell and got what he deserved. As I stand here, the past week rolls over me in waves of memories. From the moment of Jackson's death, everything became a blur comprised of a series of funereal rituals and preparations.
Every day was filled with decisions and choices. The selection of a suitable casket, the most poetic epitaph for his tombstone, and the extravagant floral arrangements that would blanket his final resting place. Each decision was overwhelming, a surreal reminder of the permanence of Jackson's absence. I remember visiting the funeral home and choosing the charcoal grey and mahogany casket, the one that seemed to match the Blackhart’s wealthy persona.
The funeral director, an older gentleman with sympathetic eyes, led us through the process with a somber grace. He showed us an array of burial clothing, and we chose a suit, black as midnight, the one that resembles the one Jackson wore all the time. His mother clung to it with her tears soaking the fabric.
There were endless discussions about the order of service. Deciding who would deliver the eulogy was a battle in and of itself. Victor offered for me to do it, saying it would be the final gift to Jackson as his widow. Before I could refuse, Donna suggested that each of us say something, and that was the end of the conversation. The discussions, the choices, the planning, it was all a haze of grief and disbelief.
I recall the visit to the cemetery where we chose a spot under an ancient oak tree, a place befitting the Blackhart legacy. Every detail was scrutinized, and every decision weighed heavy on their hearts as we prepared to say our final goodbyes to Jackson. It was a week of suspended reality, a week where I navigated through putting on the façade of a grieving widow as if I cared that he died.
The priest’s voice brings me back to the present. His voice echoes solemnly in the silence of the church, his words a soft balm against the harsh reality of the loss.
"We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Jackson Blackhart,” he begins, his voice steady and comforting. As he talks about Jackson's life, his accomplishments, and his dreams, tears begin to flow freely from everyone’s eyes. Everyone except for me, but I make sure to look as sad as I possibly can. The cries of Donna and Aurora fill the air, their grief piercing the solemn silence like a knife.
Meanwhile, Damien stands there like a statue in his expensive black suit, looking as stoic as always. His face is unreadable, a mask hiding whatever turmoil he might be feeling. His eyes, however, hold a visible anger. The priest finishes his speech, and Damien steps forward. He steps up to the podium and clears his throat. His gaze sweeps over the crowd, a sea of somber faces, before landing on me.
"My brother was a man of strong convictions," he starts, his voice firm. "He lived by his own rules, and his fierce determination often got him into trouble. Trouble I’d usually have to bail him out of."
He pauses, gripping the sides of the podium tightly. His knuckles turn white under the strain. "Many of you knew Jackson as the charming, charismatic individual he was. He had a way of gaining attention when he walked into a room."
I try not to snort at the shit Damien is saying. Jackson was an asshole who treated people like shit. Everyone here knows it, so there’s no use in feeding them shit and convincing them it’s good for them. Damien pauses as he gets lost in thought, and I can see his features soften a little. But as quickly as it comes, it's gone, replaced by a cold, hard edge.
"Jackson wasn't just my brother," Damien continues, his gaze hardening. "He was a Blackhart, a force to be reckoned with. While we mourn his loss today, we must also remember who we are. We do not forgive, and we do not forget.”
His words hang heavy in the silent church, vibrating with a promise of retribution. The stoicism he had showed cracks, revealing a flicker of the fury burning beneath. It's a side of Damien I don’t want to see, a side that sends a chill down my spine. Just as quickly as it appears, it's gone, replaced by the composed, stoic demeanor everyone knows.
"My brother may be gone," he concludes. "But his spirit, his fight, lives on through us. We owe it to him to ensure his legacy is not forgotten. To ensure the world knows who he truly was. To ensure that those responsible for his untimely death face the consequences of their actions."
As he steps down from the podium, the church bursts into applause, a thunderous sound that drowns the eerie silence. I watch him as his tall figure retreats to his seat with a strange mixture of admiration and fear bubbling within me. His eulogy wasn't just a farewell to his brother. It was a declaration of war.
Donna and Aurora take their turns at the podium, their tearful eulogies for Jackson a glaring reminder of the love and bond they shared with him. Donna, her voice shaky yet filled with strength, recounts tales of a mischievous Jackson in his boyhood days. Aurora, her eyes filled with unshed tears, shares memories of the protective older brother who was always there for her. Their raw pain is apparent, etching deeper lines of grief onto their already sorrow-stricken faces.
As their words fade into the heavy silence of the church, I know it's my turn to speak. My heels click against the church's stone floor in a rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart. As I step up to the podium, I glance at Jackson's family.
"I am sorry you lost Jackson," I say in a voice barely above a whisper.
That’s all I can muster to say. I’m not an actress. I can’t make tears fall anytime I want. There’s no love lost here, and I can tell by the narrowing of their eyes that they expect me to say more, but I don’t. As my words hang in the air, I turn to the priest, silently motioning for him to close out the funeral. My part in this ceremony is done. I have said my words and offered my condolences, and now it is time to move on.
The ceremony comes to an end, and I'm ushered into the receiving line. I sigh with relief as I perform my final duty. I stand with a downcast gaze with my lips pressed into a thin line as a steady stream of people approach, each face a blur of sympathy and sorrow.
"I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Blackhart,” a woman says in a voice choked with emotion. She looks familiar, but I can't quite place her.
"Thank you," I murmur in response.
Another figure approaches, an older man with a weathered face. "Jackson was a good man. A loss to us all," he mumbles, his eyes moist with unshed tears.
"Thank you," I repeat, my tone as cold and unyielding as the winter frost.
One by one, they come. Each bearing their condolences as if they were offering me a lifeline, unaware of the fact that I never wanted to be saved. I despised Jackson. Their words of comfort fall on deaf ears, and their pity is misplaced, but they don't know.
They don't know that with each passing moment, with each 'sorry for your loss,' I feel a sense of relief washing over me. They can't see it. They don’t see that I didn't shed a single tear for Jackson. I won't. Not now, not ever.
As soon as everything is over, I head toward the car as fast as my feet will allow me. I want to get as far away from the Blackharts as I can. I don’t make it a couple of feet before a hand grabs me and turns me around.
“How could you just stand there?” Aurora yells at me. “I saw you at the party. You did nothing. You let him die!”
I stand there silently, not giving her the satisfaction of replying.
“Answer me, bitch!” she says before slapping me in the face.
My head whips to the side, and I turn toward her with anger in my eyes. I shove her hard, and she stumbles.
“Touch me again, and I will kill you,” I tell her before walking away.
I can hear her screaming behind me, saying that this isn’t over. As far as I’m concerned, this is over. I’m free, and I can’t wait to move on with my life.
I climb into the car and tell Harrison to take me home. My childhood home. I made sure to have my things moved back there during the funeral preparations. I knew that when the funeral ended, I’d never return to Jackson’s home. It can rot and decay for all I care. Not that his family would ever let that happen.
As the car pulls up to the quaint house I once called home, a sense of familiarity washes over me. I step out, and my heels click against the cobblestone path as I make my way to the front door. The key slides into the lock with ease, and I push the door open, stepping into the comforting embrace of the past.
Slipping out of my heels, I let out a sigh of relief as the tension in my body slowly fades away. I discard my black dress, trading it for a pair of comfortable jeans and a loose-fitting shirt. The fabric is soft against my skin, a stark contrast to the stiff and confining clothes I've been forced to wear.
The room is bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, painting everything in hues of gold. The bed, my old bed, calls to me, and I can't resist its allure. I slip under the covers and let the cool sheets soothe my skin. Laying my head on the pillow, I let out a long breath, allowing myself to relax completely for the first time in what feels like forever.
My phone rings, piercing the comfortable silence of the house. A smile crosses my face when I see Seraphina's name flashing on the screen.
"Hey, Sera," I greet her, my voice light and cheerful.
"Isabella," she sounds relieved as she speaks. "You sound...happy.”
"Yes, I do," I admit openly. There's no use in hiding it. She's one of the few people who truly knows what I've gone through.
"I would give you my condolences," she says, and I can almost see her smirk over the phone. "But we both know how much you despised Jackson, so I won’t waste my breath."
I chuckle at her statement. "No condolences needed, Sera. Actually, you won't believe what happened after the funeral."
"Oh?" She questions, her tone intrigued.
"Aurora. She had the audacity to confront me, blamed me for Jackson’s death, and slapped me across the face," I recount the encounter with a steady voice.
"You're kidding!" Seraphina shrieks, laughter bubbling up in her tone. "Please tell me you punched the bitch in the face."
"No, but I did threaten to kill her if she ever touches me again," I confess, joining in her laughter.
"Well, that's a start, I suppose. Next time, though, don't forget the punch," she advises with amusement.
Our laughter fills the silence, and in that moment, I'm flooded with a sense of fulfillment. The chapter of my life involving Jackson and the Blackharts is closed, and I have people like Seraphina in my life. I can finally live in peace.
"Sera, I need to think about my next steps," I say, shifting my position on the bed to prop myself up. "I need... a job, maybe even school. Who knows? Maybe I'll even start dating," I suggest, and we both burst into laughter again at that.
"You, dating? Now that's a sight I'd like to see," she teases in a light tone.
Despite our laughter, I know she understands the weight of my words. I'm talking about building a life, my life, without Jackson. Without the weight of elite social expectations. We chat about possible jobs, debating the merits of different careers. Sera even brings up her cousin's school, knowing my love for learning before my life turned to shit.
"Make sure to go out," she adds. "Meet new people. Take a chance."
"I will, Sera. In due time," I assure her, the anticipation of a fresh beginning stirring within me.
After we say our goodbyes and hang up, I rise from the bed, and stretch. I make my way to the bathroom to run a hot bath to soothe my stiff muscles. As I wait for it to fill, I look at my reflection in the mirror. I'm going to wash away the remnants of today's sadness.
As the water laps against my skin, I soak in the tub, the comforting heat slowly seeping into my bones. The scent of lavender from the bath salts fills the air, giving a calming presence in the quiet bathroom. Time seems to lose its meaning as I simply exist in this moment of tranquility, letting the warmth soothe the lingering tension from today's events. It's only when I notice my fingers turning pruny that I realize how long I've been in the tub.
With a sigh, I slowly rise out of the bath, the cool air making my skin tingle as droplets of water trickle down my body. I wrap a fluffy towel around myself and pad back towards the bedroom, relishing the soft carpet under my bare feet. Slipping under the cool sheets, I can't help but smile. For the first time in a long time, I can anticipate a peaceful night's sleep. The promise of a fresh start when the sun rises is a comforting thought, and as I close my eyes, I let it lull me into a deep, restful slumber.