I don't know why I'm there.
The whole class went. But I don't know why.
The world seems very strange these days. I can feel the breath in my throat like sandpaper but I can't, somehow, form a coherent picture of what's around me. The shadows aren't normal anymore. They block all understanding.
At thirteen I weigh seventy-eight pounds. I'm unaware of how thin I am. I'm unaware of hunger. I misinterpret the sensation as queasiness and nausea, and it drives me away from rather than towards food.
I can feel each breath. I can hardly swallow. Somehow when I try, it just won't happen. To fight the pressure, I fold a leg back on the pew, keeping my knee twisted.
If you asked me what was wrong I couldn't possibly explain. This thing is wordless. It explains itself in breath and shadows. A Missalette with meanings that you just don't understand.
You're always at the funeral of a stranger.
