They are all wearing black.

It's very depressing.

Why couldn't he have left instructions for his funeral; for them to all be dressed in bright rainbow colors instead?

This wasn't supposed to be a dismal, wretched kind of funeral.

No, in his mind, it was supposed to be a celebration of the life lived and the eternity that would follow in everlasting night, finally free of the shackles and pain filled prison that was life on earth.

His father stands, all dry eyes and stony expression.

The gathered crowd on the verdant grassy knoll turns toward him in anticipation; almost like they're expecting it now, at any moment.

'Soon', they think to themselves. 'Soon, he'll show some emotion. Soon, he'll actually prove that he did care about his son.'

But he doesn't.

He stares and stares and stares at that open casket.

He must believe it still has his son inside.

It doesn't.

His son is watching the proceedings from somewhere above, somewhere that he cannot reach, and the place his father will not be able to follow.

He knows the contents of his father's soul.

He will not be joining him at Peace.

Peace is exactly as it sounds; just as the word describes, it is thankless and wondrous and an absence of the kind of pain that used to wrap around his neck and choke the life out of him, just like it had done to him on that earth.

The pain had finally overwhelmed him.

He'd let go, succumbed to it. Drowned in it.

Reveled in it.

The light wasn't bright, but a beautiful diluted ray of sunshine devoid of all color—almost as if it were...grey.

Pale and effervescent, translucent. The conduit for a myriad of kaleidoscope colors to traverse through and paint the rest of the world in its beauty, but this...

this lack of color...

This was the real thing.

Perhaps he should've left instructions for them to all wear grey that day, in honor of his namesake.

It sounds ridiculous in his head.

'In honor of'.

Like he deserves any kind of honor.

At least in death, Grey Hartingrove understood his place in the world.

He understands it just fine, as his father approaches the podium to deliver an emotionless eulogy.

His mother couldn't have done it—she was too busy weeping and wailing over the loss that she could hardly form words. He doesn't understand why—his wasn't a loss that should've been felt deeply and profoundly; rather, it was a loss that should've only scratched the surface, made way for their perfect child to shine.

Parker is off to the side, alone.

Sad. Despondent. But he'd be okay in the long run. In the end.

There is no friend of his in the crowd. No one there to comfort his mother. Not even his brother would do her that favor.

Instead, his brother stares at their father as he begins his speech.

"Grey was an emotionally complex young man. He always said what was on his mind, and it didn't matter how you felt about it—he was going to tell it to you right then. He was kind, but other times, he could be a little devil."

The crowd gets a kick out of hearing of his mischievous ways as a child.

"Grey was the kind of kid you always knew was going to grow up to be smart—too smart for their own good. He was so interested in writing stories...but they had to mean something. One time I remember, he was twelve years old. He came up to me with a story about a giant spider that could talk. The giant spider wanted to befriend the humans, but they were all terrified of him because of what he looked like.

"He said that's how people saw him because even then he began dressing differently; wearing darker clothes and wanting to shave his head. He felt different, I suppose, because he was different. I don't want the way my son died to define his life and the works he created. That's why I'll be starting up a center for Creative Writing at Hartingrove Academy. In honor of Greylin Hartingrove, and his stories that were never told."

It is like his father expected applause after his eulogy.

He doesn't understand that everyone is sad for a boy that none of them knew; sad for a family that should've known better and seen the warning signs.

It doesn't matter that they tried to cover up the way he passed; it is a small town. Everyone finds out eventually.

Finally, Parker stands to walk to the podium.

Instead, he bangs a fist on the coffin off to the side.

The coffin is closed; his parents not wanting to show the world the scars around his neck.

"Dammit, Grey. Why would you do this? Why? Tell me!"

He flips open the black stained wood of the coffin, but his body is no longer inside.

Instead...

His body is underneath a plush kind of bed...and there is beeping somewhere far off in the distance.

Someone is weeping nearby.

"Grey! GREY!"

Someone is screaming his name, but they are so far away.

If only he could cling onto that bright pale light a moment longer, then the scene would begin to feel real again. The funeral would really happen.

Except...

Someone is missing in that scene.

He can't put his finger on it, but—

a girl.

There was a girl missing from his funeral that should have been there. She should have been the one to deliver his eulogy, not his robotic, unfeeling, uncaring father.

She...

She was soft lines and the remnants of a beauty he'd forgotten long ago.

The weeping intensifies, but he does not listen. He closes his ears, eyes, nose, mouth, senses...holds it all in until—

"You all need to get out of here!"

"Doctor Sloan, I'm the code RN. We just shocked him at 150 for a V-fib arrest—could still be in V-fib. Last shock was a minute and a half ago."

"Have we given any meds yet?"

"No meds yet, we have IV access."

"Alright let's push Epi. Someone get the family out of here, please."

Something tethers himself back into his body.

It feels like acid flowing through earth-bound veins.

"One milligram of Epi in."

Something is concaving his chest in and out.

"At pulse check we're gonna change compressors."

"Alright, looks like its V-fib. Let's go ahead and shock."

"Charging at 200 joules."

"Everybody stand clear."

"Shocking—"

Colors. Lights. Sounds, smells, and touch—all of it is delivered to him back into this body until he is no longer a floating entity above the heads of nurses and doctors, but a patient lying in a hospital bed in a flimsy gown with electrical wires connected to his body and needles sticking out of his arm and fluid entering through the tubes connected to the needles and—

"Shock delivered, resume CPR."

His heart is slamming into his rib cage, the pain near excruciating.

"10 seconds til pulse check."

"Pulse check."

"He has a pulse with compressions."

"Hold compressions."

The breath he finally inhales on his own that isn't being forced down his lungs is one of sputtering, choking oxygen.

"We have a pulse. Good job guys, let's secure the airway and let's call ICU."

Grey Hartingrove opens his eyes.