Unedited.

Warning: worse than the last chapter. I got emotional writing this! (Don't hurt me).      

If James and Jordon's last name changed, can someone tell me, because I have no idea if I've even mentioned it before . . .        

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 A drunk driver. That's how he died. Jordon driving both of them to school, then being hit with a car, the driver so inebriated he didn't even know he'd hit them.

Jordon had died on the scene, James later on from blood loss.

After everything he'd been through, James had died because some idiot decided to get drunk and drive.

So here I sit, the front row of a church pew, crying violent sobs as photos of James and Jordon flash along the TV screen in the top corner of the church. Mum sits in the row behind me, dad and Rick with her.

The front rows are only meant to be for immediate family, but before I could even sit with mum and dad, James' mum had steered me to the front row to sit next to her. I'd gone without complaint.

St Vincent's church is beautiful, holding ceremonies every Sunday morning. I've never been inside before, never attended a ceremony, but it's as beautiful as they say. It's large and spacious, a glass dome at the top of the building. The front of the church has a glass mural depicting religious figures. Beside that is clean white walls.

Four pillars line the front of the church, a few metres in front of the first row; two on both sides of the edges of the room so they don't restrict the view. They're cut with white stone.

There's a dais up the front, just three small steps to get up. On it, sits two coffins, one with a photo of James and the other of Jordon.

The priest clears his throat, tapping his hand on the podium that's next to the coffins. "Welcome all, to this sombre occasion. Today we gather not to mourn the loss of two lives taken too soon, but to celebrate the lives they lead, the memories they leave behind. Now, if you'd all take out the brochures you were given . . ."

I reach underneath my black skirt to grab the brochure I'd been sitting on. I flip it open to the front page, blinking through tears to make out the words. It's an impossible feat.

"Now, if you'd all flick to page three and stand as we read A Time for Everything from Ecclesiastes 3." Every one stands, and I follow suit, legs shaking.

The Priests' voice rings out, loud and clear, as he looks onto a piece of paper, though I barely hear the words.

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die:

A time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh:

A time to mourn, and a time to dance:

For everything there is a season, and a time for everything under heaven."

When he's finished reading, he murmurs, "Amen," and we all repeat the word, before sitting.

"Are you okay?"

The whisper comes from behind me and I turn to face dad. When he sees my tear stained cheeks, he pulls me forward as best as he can, resting his forehead against mine. "You're okay Alyson," he whispers. "You'll be okay. We'll get over this."

I say nothing, as he kisses my forehead. "You'll be okay," he repeats.

Dad's worn his best suit to the funeral, one I've only ever seen him wear once before. Black shirt, black jacket and black slacks. Rick's in his own version of the suit, just a lot smaller. Mum's in a pencil skirt and black blouse, her outfit similar to mine. The only difference is that she'd thought about it first, I'd found a black shirt and shirt, throwing them on, too emotionally unstable to look for hours.

When I turn, minutes later, James' mum isn't sitting beside me, on the podium instead. Her hands shake as she repositions the microphone, looking emotionally wrecked.

We all look on silently, holding our breaths.

She clears her throat, eyes moving to the two coffins. More tears fall before she rips her eyes away. "A week ago," she begins, voice rough and shaky. "I lost both my sons. Children I loved more than anything else. Anything they wanted I would give them, no matter the price."

She pauses, wiping a tear from her eye. "James' life wasn't easy, but he was brave with a big heart. He acted as if being deaf meant nothing. He wasn't afraid to say I love you, to cry . . . he— he was beautiful, inside and out. Seeing him smile made my day. Jordon . . ."

She shakes her head. "I can't— I can't do this . . . some—someone take the . . . microphone."

Someone gets up near me—James' aunt, I think—and walks over to the podium, leading her back with an arm around her shoulders. James' mum sits again and I see her hands shake rapidly, as she sobs loudly.

I lay my hand on her shoulder in an attempt at comfort. She looks over, eyes wet and cheeks tear-stained. "Alyson . . . can you say something?"

I can only blink at her. "What?" I whisper, voice tight.

She nods to the podium. "Can you speak? James would want it."

I'm at a complete loss, but I manage to stutter, "I— I didn't bring anything . . . what do I say?"

She shrugs. "Whatever you want."

Wordlessly, I shake my head. Her face falls, but I know I can't do it. I'll freeze up and sob, giving a speech too confronting.

"You don't have to," she whispers.

It's then I realise that I do. The therapy session comes back. To get over something you have to talk about it—it's the only way.

"Okay," I whisper, "I'll do it."

Then I stand up, legs shaking as I walk up to the dais. Eyes watch me and I block them out, attempting to hold back the tears. The walk to the podium takes forever, every step heavy.

When I finally get there, I stare at the crowd of people. Both Jordon's and James' friends are here, crowding towards the back. The guys aren't crying, but the girls are, clutching onto whoever they can grab. The first row is full, cousins, aunts and grandparents sobbing loudly. The rest of the space is filled with people I don't know, other than dad, mum and Rick.

I clear my throat, in attempt to speak. At the first try my voice is nothing but a weak rasp. The second it's weak, but audible with the microphone.

"Uh . . . well, I didn't plan what I'd say; didn't even know I was going to speak. So, this probably won't make sense."

I stare down at the podium, before glancing up quickly. My eyes meet dads and he smiles softly, before mouthing, Go for it. It'll be okay.

I nod to him, wiping away a tear. Then I take a deep breath, before forcing out words, even though my throat is dry. "I met James outside of a hospital. We talked . . . he didn't talk . . . but I did anyway. Then I realised he was deaf. So we wrote down our conversation on a notepad." I blink through the tears. "Then, when I was leaving he gave me his number."

There's no noise. No one dares to say anything. All that can be heard is the sound of tears and heavy breathing.

In the silence, I continue, laughed quietly. "I didn't waste a second. On the way home I texted him. He didn't respond until that night. He was a stranger, but I was up all night texting him. I don't even know what he talked about, but I know I fell asleep smiling."

My voice cracks. "After that, I talked to him every day. It was sad but he was my closest friend, even after talking to him for an hour. I'd pushed away all the others, refusing to be the one to die and leave them behind. But, James . . . James knew about the cancer from the beginning. He didn't care, didn't treat me like I was glass like everyone else does when they find out. We even had nicknames—CG, cancer girl, and DG, deaf guy. Sick, right?"

No one says anything, staring at me like I'm suddenly a different person. It should be worrying that I've just told strangers I have cancer, even if I'm in remission, but at the moment, I can't bring myself to care.

I continue to talk, the words tumbling out now. "After that, everything just fell into place. At first, I thought it was too god to be true, but then I decided to go with it . . ." My throat gets tight and I cough, focusing solely on dad. "He was perfect . . . inside and out."

The church doors slide open, and I watch a young child run in, long black dress too big for her frame.

Then I look back at dad, throat tight, as I continue to speak. Whether or not they want to hear it, I don't care. All I know is that I know I have to say it.

"A week after, we first met, he asked me to go to the city with him. I'd never been, but he'd offered to take me with him." I choke on a sob, lifting my shaking hands to grip the podium. "That day . . . was easily, the best day of my life. James was great . . . amazing. He said nothing when I had to sit down and use artificial air to breathe. I went swimming, for the first time in six years. I had a water fight and I didn't care that I couldn't breathe.

"And Jordon . . . Jordon didn't care. He drove us around all day, never once complaining. There was nothing he wouldn't do for his brother, and he acted the same way towards me that day."

My eyes meet James' mums. She stares back with red eyes, a small, reminiscent smile on her face. I blink, trying to muster up my own smile. It's a futile effort and I know I fail miserably.

"That day, at the museum, he kissed me. It was the most awkward moment of my life, but he just laughed about it. Then, it happened again, and I suddenly understood all the hype. He held me close . . . it was beautiful."

There's the shuffle of feet, and I blink rapidly, wiping away tears quickly. They taste bitter. With a shake of the head, I look down at the piece of paper resting on the podium, unable to meet anyone's eyes. Then I speak, voice tight and raw.

"I was in hospital for chemotherapy a few weeks ago, and there's nothing worse than being stuck in a hospital. But, James . . . James took time out of his day to visit me. I looked terrible, hooked up to all sorts of IV drips . . . but he didn't care. He came in, carrying flowers, smiling at me like I was all he wanted to look at."

Again, I stare at his mum. She clutches the hand next to her, face pale. But her eyes never stray from mine and I take strength from her.

"Then . . . then her told me—" I force myself to breathe, though all I want to do is curl up in a ball and cry until my heart is no longer breaking. "He told me he loved me. I didn't believe him, refused to. Then, when it sunk in, I just cried. He held me the whole time. I couldn't believe it. I was afraid to.

"That was the last time I saw him alive."

Mum's hand covers her mouth, staring at me like she's never seen me before. She clutches dad desperately, who, in turn, holds her close, haunted eyes staring at me.

"He was my first boyfriend," I whisper, though thanks to the microphone my voice carries through the whole church. "My first kiss. I knew him for no more than a month, but in that time, he mattered to me more than anyone else ever had. When he smiled, I wanted to smile back. When he said a joke, I laughed no matter how terrible it was. Just thinking about him, made me happier."

"He gave me strength when I needed it most . . ." A tear falls onto my shaking hand, the moisture running down like a river. "I was stupid, blinded. He told me he loved me, and I froze. He helped make dinner at my house, played video games with my brother . . . he was perfect. And I was in love with him."

I choke on a sob. "He died before I could even tell him. He didn't know . . . and now he's gone . . . I should've died, not him. He was going to do something amazing with his life. Me? I'm destined to die."

"I never believed in heartbreak until I experienced it firsthand. Now, I know it's real. And it's the most painful experience you'll ever go through. Some mornings, I go to text him . . . until I realise he's not going to respond, because he's dead. I think about him . . . imagine him laughing at something . . . but it's not the same. It will never the same."

Another tear drips onto my hand. "They weren't supposed to die, either of them. You're supposed to have the word of God to end your speech . . . but I don't know what God has said before. So, all I have to say is—" I stare at the coffins, throat tight, "—I love you, James," I whisper. "I'll always love you, no matter what. Know you were loved, both of you, and you'll never be forgotten."

I can no longer speak after that. On shaking legs, I walk down off the dais, sitting quickly.

The rest of the funeral goes by in a blur, as I lean against James' mum, sobbing.

*

James' grave sits in front of me. I'm numb, staring at it, as tears fall.

James Morrison.

April 19th 1999 — July 14th 2015

A beautiful life taken too soon . . .

A son that will be forever missed . . .

A brother that will be forever remembered . . .

Goodbye. You'll all always be in our hearts.

Above the plaque is a photo of him, grinning. He looks the exact same as when I saw him last, hair cropped, grinning widely. He's standing in front of a tree, arm pointing to the right, right at Jordon's grave.

Jordon has a photo of him, grinning just as widely, pointing to the left. His plaque has the same engraving.

They're pointing to each other.

Someone sits next to me and I don't bother glancing over. Then I hear quiet Catherine's voice.

"Up there, on the dais, you did well."

I don't look at her, just humming noncommittally.

Her hand reaches over, gripping my hand in hers. I clutch back, staring at the photo of him, committing it to memory. "I'm proud of you. You talked about, in front of strangers, and now the weights gone. Now you can move on and let go of the guilt."

She's right. I'm still going to remain broken hearted for the rest of my life, but I can learn to get rid of the guilt. I give her a shaky smile. "I did. Now we can both move on."

"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal. I read it in a book once, just after Adam died. It stuck and I knew I'd never forget it." Katherine nods, to herself, staring at both of the grave. "Yes, you're right. We can both heal . . . because they'll never take the memories from us. Because we'll always love them."

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Only an epilogue left :'(

Hope you enjoyed it!