I swear the guy that conducted the funeral (Mr. Baker) could've been talking about anyone. The speech he gave was non-descript and completely pointless. He didn't even know Danny - not really. Mr. Baker lived on the other side of the village, and had probably only ever come into contact with us lot that one time Finn scraped his car (it was an accident, I swear). The speech he gave for Danny was pretty much the same one he gave at the funerals of all my other friends. I wondered if he wrote this shitty speech a few years ago and thought it'd do for everyone. The atmosphere was tense, awkward and acutely oppressive. All around me people's grieving seemed to be contagious, one person setting off another in a chain around the room. The eerie silence was unbearable. I could hear every single person's individual rasping breath and each rustle of clothing.
I thought funerals were supposed to be a special way of saying goodbye, but it didn't feel like that at all. It felt stupid, and fucked up. All week it had been the same - first Finn, then Matty, then Tommy and now Danny. None of us were religious, so it was held in the same crappy crematorium each time. I don't know what I expected, but not just a room. No fancy decorations... no... anything. Simply a room with plain chairs and even plainer walls. The colour scheme was depressingly bland, filled with creams and peaches. The floor was a red patterned carpet, tacky and cheap. I realised the only thing that made these funerals different to any other was that there were a few cameras lurking around outside for BBC News. The train crash had been talked about quite a lot, and even made a few newspaper headlines. They wanted to put me on TV to talk about my experiences, but that was the last thing I wanted right now. After all, it wasn't like the media actually gave a shit.
I didn't get why people had parties after funerals either. All week I'd been going round my mates houses to eat some food provided by their parents, have a few drinks, and go home. It made me so angry. I don't even know why, I probably just wanted something to shout about. But these were my friends. They deserved better than this.
"Mum can we not go to Danny's?" I asked quietly, as we left his funeral.
Mum looked concerned and slightly shocked, "Well don't you want to... you know... celebrate his life?"
"I'm just not in the mood," I mumbled, "Please can we go home?"
She frowned and nodded, "Okay then."
So we went home. I guess I was hoping the funerals would make me feel like I'd said a proper goodbye, but to be honest if anything they made me feel worse. I don't know if I wanted closure, or justice... or revenge? Nothing made sense. Every thought brought me back to why. Why did it happen? Why did I survive? There was nothing more infuriating than an unanswerable question. I couldn't work out who (or what) to direct my anger at, because I didn't know who was to blame. The person that committed suicide that night? The train driver? Or maybe the people that designed the train? My brain was full of stupid thoughts, stupid questions and stupid emotions. I couldn't work out any of it. I turned out the light, locked my door and cried myself to sleep.
That night was the first time I self harmed.