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*
Caustics have painted their way across the room, playful prisms from the towering stained glass windows trailing and teasing their way across the wooden floorboards. They are soft, bright, shimmering brilliance, and for a moment it makes him think of Marcy.
When he'd first met her, she'd had a rainbow in her hair, a green smudge of paint staining her ear, and a smiley face patched on her knee.
A cloud passes overhead, and the room grows dark again; he tries not to think of the parallels.
He does his best not to think himself a coward, refusing to see her body, wanting his last memory of her to be that video call just days before the-
Before the-
He settles into a pew, ignores how its groan echoes through the abandoned church.
It's quiet here, now.
Quiet, almost oppressive in its way.
His family wasn't religious.
Casey could count on one hand the number of church services he's attended with his folks over the years which weren't attached to any special occasions- on one hand the services which didn't involve funerals or baptisms, which didn't center around stories of birth or rebirth, which didn't feature Mendelssohn echoing from crackling speakers or unpolished pipes.
Lisa had never cared much for it, performative at best, and Danny...
They have their system, tying in the cultural traditions they loved, with a healthy balance of appeasing both of their mothers, but...
Danny's very lax about faith himself these days, and Casey wouldn't dare dream of telling Charlie which path to choose.
Casey is not a religious man, never truly has been, but Bobby is.
Marcy is.
Was.
Marcy was.
It's quiet, and Casey finds in the silence that he's hung up on a single syllable, gripping because of a verb's permanently shifting itself from present to past tense, spiraling over lost memories, fearing the days ahead when he will inevitably lose more.
He'd thought...
He'd thought.
Regret is a bitter taste, one he is far from unfamiliar with.
Each chapter in his life could be titled by his biggest regrets; the working title here would be "A Decade and A Half of 'Should Haves.'"
He should have visited more.
He should have called more.
He should have stayed.
He should have-
Casey exhales, feels his shoulders slump forward and follows through on the motion, forehead resting on the pew before him, arms hanging uselessly beside him, hands floating in the abyss.
148 people.
148.
The stats are astronomical, the devastation truly undefinable.
He remembers meeting Robbie for the first time, how nervous Charlie had been to hold him. He remembers Brooke taking her first steps, how excited Robbie was to have a baby sister.
He remembers the light in their eyes, and he remembers watching Marcy's grow darker as Bobby's nights out grew longer.
He remembers the unanswered calls; he could pull up his phone and count out dozens of unaddressed texts.
He should have come home, at least for a while.
He should have ignored her, cashed in his vacation days earlier, come home and-
And what?
Bobby had chosen his path.
Crossed the bridge and burned it behind him.
Casey winces at the idiom; terrible analogy.
Bobby...
He looks up, half expecting to see the man, worries when doesn't, settles when he remembers Chuck's with him; Casey tries to ignore the nausea that reminder brings.
The reminder that Ann couldn't be bothered to attend the funeral of her own grandchildren.
That Ann Hutchinson, who'd built an entire empire around her allegedly being a "good Christian," couldn't find the compassion or grace or empathy to offer comfort and support to her son.
"What a piece of work."
His voice carries, even as a murmur, and he looks up again, surprised that the room remains abandoned.
The sun has shifted again, the cold crisp golden glow of December shining through, painting the floors once more with diluted pigmentation.
It's quiet, and still, and he tries to find peace in that.
The funeral is over, and Bobby is still alive.
That, at least, is worth some small joy.
He's lost a sister, a nephew, a niece, but at least...
He still has Bobby.
He still has Bobby, and he'll be damned if he goes back to New York without Bobby knowing that he still has Casey, and that he will always have Casey.
The funeral is over.
The bells have all been rung.
There is nothing left but silence.
Silence, and the fading light of the sun, dancing through the smoke of melting candles.
The wax trickles down to the floor, puddles of white solidifying on golden tile.
The orange flames flicker and flutter till they surrender to the grey abyss.
*