![]() “How you holding up?” a sweet voice asks. Where are you, Daddy? Where did you go when you left this body? And yet here we are staring at their unmoving corpses and whispering things they cannot hear. What kind of sick society do we live in where this is a thing? Mom and Dad don’t even look like the people we knew and loved. I swallow down the laughter because people are arriving to view the bodies. “Rylie,” my brother hisses, shooting me a sharp glare. If she wasn’t dead already, she’d die of a coronary. The way they styled her hair is reminiscent of some bad eighties music video. He stands near Mom’s casket and adjusts her hair so her bangs aren’t hanging over her closed eyes. ![]() “Rylie,” Hudson warns, irritation in his tone. ![]() The thought of him sitting up and swiping the blush off his cheeks has me giggling. If he knew the funeral home put makeup on him, he’d lose his damn mind. Dad has rosy cheeks, for crying out loud. ![]()
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