The Wrong Number
The Funeral
The skies were a dark gray. Rain was splattered against every object it can touch. A thunder boomed up ahead.
A dark limousine turned around a curb, splashing into a puddle. The limousine headed towards the graveyard.
Many people dressed in black exited the car once it parked right outside the graveyard. They pulled black umbrellas over their heads.
They walked through the tombstones, and finally, stopped at one. It was a dug grave, nothing was inside of it, and the people surrounded the hole nonetheless.
They read the tombstone solemnly.
Arlene James
Loving daughter and friend
Many of them were crying, but a lady with curly black hair was sobbing the hardest; for Arlene was her daughter.
The lady had few pimples or warts, she had tan skin and triangular shaped hazel eyes. She wore a long lace black dress, and her ears were pierced with Christmas earrings she had not bothered to take off the day before.
A few hours later, the funeral ended and the people began to leave.
“The poor mother,” one of the guests said. “Arlene was only 17 when she died.”
“That must be heartbreaking,” another one admitted, her face filled with pity. “Arlene had only gotten her driver’s license, and the next week, a car accident which killed her.”
“I am devastated,” another guest nodded. “I didn’t know Arlene, but I did know her mother. Harriet was simply... Much happier before her daughter died. ‘It’s too sad to be true’, I quote.”
The three guests entered a taxi and left the graveyard.
Harriet James soon followed.
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