Hope Forever [Mathilda's Funeral Celebration]

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Blackston Hope

When Blackston had heard the news that his dear grandmother had died, he couldn’t believe it.

Mathilda seemed like someone that was going outlive all the Hopes on sheer spite alone. His earliest memory of her was a dressing down of how his father had looked at some family dinner years ago. Did she use the word ‘worthless’ or was it ‘good-for-nothing’ to describe him? She spared nothing to make his father feel inadequate, which Blackston admired.

Mathilda knew how to rip someone apart in a god honoring way, which was to say she didn’t need to curse or call them names. She could simply describe them and their faults as they were, and how they could better themselves to truly make them behave.

The day of her funeral, he was all too happy to be the first person to speak. He would give his best to make sure God was present, and to honor her, too.

“When I was nine years old, Grandma Mathilda told me that I would never amount to anything in my life.” Blackston stood at the front of a banquet hall that had been rented out to honor his late, great grandma. A giant, imposing portrait hung on one side with flowers on the other. He adjusted the microphone at the podium and screeching feedback followed.

“She spent a lot of time telling me how there was nothing I was going to be able to do to achieve anything important. She told me my hair made me look like a clown. One time when someone asked her ‘which one is your grandson?’ She said, ‘the little gay boy’.” He licked his lips and stood too close to the microphone. His lip quivered and he failed to choke back the tears.

“… but I think in a lot of ways, Grandma Mathilda showed me how much she loved me through her strength. She knew all of us so well she didn’t have to praise us. She wanted us to live up to her standards, which were impossible.” He turned to look at the glare of her portrait and cleared his throat.

“Her mouth is full of wisdom; kindly teaching is on her tongue.” Blackston spoke the proverb and did his best to smile. “Grandma Mathilda, I know a lot of us are who we are today because of you. And I know that… wherever you are.. you’re making sure we all… live up to who you think we’re going to be.”

It was then he burst into tears, ugly crying into the microphone. Snot dripped out of his nose as he wiped his eyes. He turned left to head back to his seat only to knock into a set of white petunias. He turned back again and hit into the podium, sending more feedback out to the crowd. At last he found his seat to let the celebration continue.

[[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨]

This is the best day of my life!

Talk about a Ratmas miracle. As soon as I found out that old hag was dead in the snow I started singing 'Ding Dong, The Bitch Is Dead' until Dads told me to stop being so disrespectful - but I saw them laughing in the corner of my eye. I even saw Pops bopping his head along! Hypocrites.

They've tried to convince me all my life that she wasn't all bad, and I guess I remember them saying Grandma did pull some strings to get us in this two-storey. But I wasn't even alive then, so it doesn't count!

I wanted to wear white but Dad said that wasn't appropriate - so I opted for a sparkly gold dress and matching shoes. Usually I ain't a dress kinda girl, but when there's a moment to celebrate I'll be there! Plus I wanted to impress Aunt Birdie, so I threw a denim jacket over the top. Cool, casual, totally not trying my hardest to be just like her. I think I pull it off well!

Trust Blackston to give the world's most boring speech. I start yawning on his second syllable, whispering "She's right!" to nobody in particular when he mentioned how mean she was to him and hollering "Booo!" at the end when everyone started awkwardly clapping. Pops gave me an elbow in the ribs at that and a warning glare. I can hear his words even if he ain't speakin - something about Mathilda won't be the only dead Hope here today if you don't quit it. But if there's one thing that dead witch and I could always agree on, it was how miserably pathetic my big brother is. Fuckin' crybaby!

"That was the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to this family" I croon at my brother as he sits back down, "since Uncle Pierre lost the election!"

Someone else gets up to speak and I'm bored all over again. This blows. I tell Dads I'm going to the bathroom and quietly shuffle out of my seat, but really I'm looking for the kitchen. What's a party without caterers? And champagne - this is a day for celebrating!

[ coding by griffin ]

[gamemaker ☢️ ivan korsch]

PIERRE HOPE

Since retirement, life has been paradise for Pierre. Back to the terraced house where he brought up his children, but there are a lot of empty rooms now. Just Abi and him, living out their golden years with no burdens. No weight from carrying a whole District. No Capitol officials knocking on his door at four in the morning. Just Abi and him.

Now and then his enormous, mismatched family meet up for the holidays or the birthday of one of his many nieces and nephews, and even for his own grandchildren. All quite painless and easy to dip out early events that do not happen so often.

Except Pierre’s peace came crashing down a hill on a sled in the snow.

Oldest child with the most responsibilities. He had to be the one to identify his mother’s body, mangled and blue with frostbite. Then he had to be the one knocking on his sibling’s doors to break the news. AND THEN he had to be the one to pick the burial site and the food spread for the wake.

Writing his funeral speech and organizing the whole funeral did take him back to his mayoral office days and damn, he does not miss it one bit!

The next speech will be shortest he has given.

Pierre is next to stand at the podium, after one of his nephews. Baxter or something. Dressed all in black, a three-piece suit that was crafted by his own hand. He peeks down at the prompt card in front of him Talk about how many kids she had. Talk about how she died. Make it sound sympathetic. The end.

”Our dear mother Mathilda…” He clears his throat, the audience his family are still lost in conversation and watching the blubbering mess, Blake or something, making his way back to his seat. ”We can all thank her for our existence. If not for her strength and athletic ability from carrying twelve children. None of us would be here today. The woman was known for telling the truth and well as her oldest child she was a true influence on me...

What a spectacular way to go. When she learnt of my diagnosis she laughed in my face and told me that is a sad and unfortunate way to go, you should have looked after yourself you pathetic old dog! So when the coroner called me to identify her body, I laughed in her face and said at least I outlived you!” There is a crippling silence in the room and Pierre just glares at Abi, waiting for the disappointment or acceptance of what he just said. Since reading the will, the bitterness that he has possessed for his mother is no longer buried deep. ”I can thank her for pushing me to become the mayor. Her less than caring words and her lack of confidence in my first candidacy drove me to take the seat. I do hope the woman is at peace. At least we can all relax now too…”

Pierre shrugs, slipping the card into his trouser pocket and freeing up the podium for the next dribble of words from a cousin or a sibling.

[goat]

i should not be left to my own devices
they come with prices and vices
i end up in crisis
(tale as old as time)
- taylor swift, anti-hero


Birdie lingered outside of the banquet hall for a long, long time, long before the ceremony was set to begin, long before any of her family members began to turn up. The cigarette between her fingers burned perfectly down to the nub, and she shook the ash off her sleek black boots before tossing the butt to the pavement and grinding it with her heel. So, this was how it ended. Not with a gunshot, or a bomb, but with Pierre knocking on her door to tell her their mother had died in an accident.

She had pressed for details. The details were embarrassing.

If she was being honest, she wasn’t sure why the family had gone to all this trouble for Mathilda’s funeral. It wasn’t as if anyone liked the old hag. They could have tossed her into the ground and been done with her without any fanfare, but no, they all had to dress up and make nice with her corpse to keep up appearances— and for who, exactly?

Birdie let out a heavy sigh and went inside, the dregs of her family now beginning to trickle in. She’d left Leland at home, or rather, she’d asked him to stay home, mostly because she knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut, which she appreciated, but she also wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, which wouldn’t happen if her husband was yelling comments after every other word of every speech. She took her seat closer to the back, crossing her legs and tugging down the hem of her black dress.

Blackston spoke first. God, that boy was a disaster. She remembered the months he lived in her spare room with a quiet cringe. Pierre followed, and she regarded her brother with a careful eye. Before he showed up at her doorstep, they hadn’t spoken in quite some time. She wondered if it was some sort of side effect of a bruised ego, or if he was just enjoying civilian life too much to bother with her.

She was out of her chair as soon as his speech ended. With a stern hand placed on Blackston’s shoulder (“Get it together, kid, she can’t hear you from here.”) and a much kinder one on Cici’s (“Hey cutie, love the jacket.”), she passed her eldest brother in the aisle and made her way to the front, punctuating her journey with two sharp claps.

“Wonderful, wonderful. Thank you, Pierre, for that… rousing speech.” She leaned forward, gripping either side of the podium. “It only makes sense to follow the oldest with the youngest. Since our dear, dead mother always expected us to follow the precedent Pierre set, I’d like give my own fun little anecdote about the witch.”

Birdie thought about the woman she was all those years ago, too depressed to leave the house, mopey and overly acquainted with red wine. She didn’t know who that bitch was anymore. The time for sadness was long over. Now, it was only time for revenge.

“I’ve actually compiled a short list in my head of all the things our mother might call you on any given day.” She cleared her throat. “Whore. Bitch. Slut. Useless— usually proceeded by one of the first three words. Disappointment— that one almost hurt the worst, but you would get used to it. See, as I got older, I realized that our mother purposely set us all up for failure so she would feel better about her own miserable life.”

She looked out over the crowd of her family, the people who both shunned her and embraced her, who couldn’t stand her and would always come to her defense, no matter what. She’d never felt so much love for them as she did in that moment. “So I think we should all take great pleasure in the fact that we’re going to lead much happier lives now that the old bitch is dead and torturing the devil in hell. If anyone wants to do shots when this is over, come meet me at the bar.”