Page 40 of The Hate We Breathe
As far as I can see, there’s nothing but an ocean of people dressed in black. I never understood why black was chosen as the quintessential funeral attire. It’s just tradition stitched from old blood and empty pockets.
Once upon a time, only the rich could afford to mourn “properly” by dying their clothes black. The poor wore whatever scraps they had, and even in death, the world made sure they carried their shame. Centuries later and nothing’s changed. The rich still get their stage. The poor still get their guilt.
We finally pull off the main road and into the parking lot already filled to the brim. I’m clad in an ill-fitting, somewhatitchy, black dress from a thrift shop that I’ll probably burn as soon as I’m out of it. Even if it’s not luxury or studded with diamonds or pearls, I’ll treat this dress with more respect than I’ll ever show Morpheus Calloway.
The rows and rows of cars already parked go by in a blur. I scan those piling out and heading towards the walkway leading into the cemetery. Morpheus had attempted to shove me back into the mold I’d forced myself out of when there was only one choice: stay and die or get out and survive.
Now, I stare at all of the people—the parents of my old classmates, my dad’s business associates, my mom’s country club friends—and I recognize the truth. Their diamonds are probably the only real thing about any of them. Even their grief feels counterfeit. I don’t belong with any of these people anymore.
They’re not saints. Not even mourners. Just liars dressed up in luxury. Just likehim.Rich. Beautiful. Evil. All of them rotting the same beneath their skin.
Somehow, they think that they’re better simply because they were born with more when none of that has ever mattered. The truth is this—we all end up in the ground someday. So, what’s the point of giving a shit about what anyone thinks until then?
Lex parks the SUV and my stomach knots as the four of us get out. Though it’s sunny, it’s by no means warm and I curl my arms around myself wishing I’d thought to bring a jacket. The air feels heavy, suffocating. As if Morpheus’ ghost is here with us and he’s hanging over my shoulders, invisible, yet still a weight to keep me down.
The sea of darkly dressed men and women flood into Silverwood Cemetery and we follow. Some have their heads down and their arms around loved ones. Others walk, stone-faced, up the hill as if they’re on their way to the gallows. The normal people—those not dressed in Armani or Gucci or Versaceor a million and one other expensive brand-name items for this—don’t even bother to look at me. But the rich folks, the people that actuallyknewme, they do.
They stare.
It makes me want to claw at their faces, peel the lies right off their skin, and scream the truth they’ll never stomach:you’re mourning a monster.
No onelikesfunerals, but I can’t deny the relief in my heart as I march alongside Nolan, Gio, and Lex across the deadened grass towards the hill and where a man in priest’s robes stands with a book in hand. As irritated as I’d been that they’d tried to keep this from me, I’m glad I’m not alone.
Morpheus Calloway. A name spoken like it carries weight, like it deserves reverence. But names are just cages we build to hide the beasts inside. He wasn’t good, wasn’t kind—he was hunger wrapped in human flesh. That’s the trick with men like him, though. The ugliest souls wear the prettiest smiles. You don’t see the teeth until they’re already sunk into your throat.
He didn’t need chains or blades to carve people apart. He killed in quieter ways, the kind that didn’t leave a body to bury. He starved the soul, bled identity dry, until all that’s left is a hollowed-out shell staring back at me in the mirror.
I’m not a survivor of his ruin. Survivors have something left to salvage. I’m nothing but ash in human skin. A fucking ghost with nothing but hate in my lungs.
A hand touches my arm, halting me, and I glance up to find that it’s Gio. Except, his attention isn’t on me. I follow the direction of his eyes and spot a familiar man several yards away.
Darrio Vargas.Dressed in a pair of slick black pants and a dark gray button-down that protrudes just a little around his stomach, the gang leader is avoided by many others in the otherwise overflowing crowd. It’s as if there’s a force fieldaround the man that keeps people a good three feet away from him at all times.
He stands with his hands in his pockets and a skinny, pockmarked man at his side chattering away. I can’t hear what the man is saying this far away, but Darrio doesn’t seem to react to his words. His eyes are trained on the priest in the distance and the procession of people moving up the hill towards the place of honor—the gravestone erected for Morpheus.
I snort aloud at that.A grave of honor. The only honorable thing about Morpheus’ death is that it happened. Gio’s gaze snaps down to mine and his brow puckers in confusion.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say in answer to his silent question. A moment later, Nolan catches sight of Darrio and Gio’s concern. He steps in front of us, blocking the other man’s image from our sights with his massive body. “Stay close,” he orders, lowering his voice. “Keep your head down and don’t acknowledge him. Not here.”
Gio doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just lifting his head and staring past Nolan at his father. I frown and reach for his hand, curling my fingers through his. Only then does he pull his gaze away and look down at me.
Uncaring of the eyes on us, I go onto my tiptoes the second his eyes meet mine and press my mouth to his. Gio’s sharp inhalation marks his surprise, but I only smile and kiss him harder, parting my lips to slip my tongue out to stroke over his lower one. With a groan, he caves, dropping my hand to wrap his arms around me.
He kisses me back with abandon. Fingers digging into my sides, tongue sliding against my own, and his cock prodding at my lower belly.
When Gio finally releases me, I’m breathless and panting. Despite the coolness of the day and the goosebumps dancingalong my legs and arms, I feel overheated and sweat lines the back of my neck.
“Are you done?” Nolan deadpans, directing the question to Gio, who merely grins back, unrepentant.
“Not even close,” G replies, but he throws an arm around my shoulders and directs me back into the swarm of people heading towards the grave site.
“So disrespectful…” An older woman with a crop of white hair that looks like it has the consistency of cotton candy scowls at us as she walks by, a faded purse clutched against her chest.
I roll my eyes. If she thought that was disrespectful, wait ’til she sees what I want to do on Morpheus’ grave when they’re all gone. Besides, though I hadn’t meant for the kiss to turn into a full-blown make-out session, it had still done what it needed to. Gio is more relaxed even when he does spot his father again. Instead of tensing up, he merely shuffles us both to the side and follows after Nolan and Lex.
Half an hour later, we’re standing around a large group of people—several hundred, at least—all of us surrounding a closed casket and the hole over which it hovers. My eyes scan the faces surrounding us, many are familiar—from the cashier from the grocery store to the teachers from the high school and even students from Silverwood Prep. At least half of the town has come out for Morpheus’ funeral.
If only they knew what kind of man he really was.
