I never knew why wearing black was so crucial when going to a funeral. I mean, why wear the most depressing color to mourn the one’s we lost? Why not wear the deceases favorite color? I quietly take pride in knowing that underneath my black dress, I’m sporting blue. Blue bra, blue underwear, and even a blue hair tie that holds my blonde locks back. Don’t worry, it’s not the dark blue that you hated-you know, the color of when day mixes into night. It’s not the blue of the sea, because I know how much you hated the ocean. It’s the blue of the sky during the daytime. The blue that we used to stare at after school, when we would just gaze upwards to find the most random things floating in the air. I hear someone call my name, bringing me back from memories of you and I. I realize it’s your mother, trying hard to hold in her tears but failing miserably. She embraces me, and I feel her silent tears drop onto my shoulder, dampening my new black dress that mom bought me for the occasion. I feel everyone’s eyes on me as your mother lets go of my shoulders, not letting go of my hands when she does. She’s stuttering her words, unable to say anything comprehendible because she’s numb from the inside, out. Same as me. I’m numb from the rumors correlating ever since you went missing. I’m numb from the stares of outsiders that think they know what happened, all while speculating at the same time. I’ve been numb the day that they declared you dead, and felt my heart fall out of my chest and wished I could give it to you. You’re mother pulls me with her, guiding me up the isle pass the pews of believers that think that I have something to do with you and your death but of course, they have no proof, neither do the police. Little do they know, I am the reason you’re dead.