The day was cold, foggy and overcast, and trembling on the brink of rain. She frowned, pulling her heavy coat closer. It figured that the weather would be as gloomy as her mood. She bowed her head obediently as the priest began the service, arms spread wide to encompass them all. A chill wind blew past, ice cold fingers brushing her cheek in a lovers caress, as it sent her skirt flapping and twining about her legs.

She stared down into the empty, open grave that would soon hold her... the coffin, wondering moodily if they would bury her alive if she threw herself in.

“Ashling, stop that!” Her mother hissed as she dragged her daughter back the half step she'd taken. Ashling blinked, distantly surprised. She hadn't even realized she'd moved. She turned her head to look across at her mother, eyes dull and weary.

“Yes, Mother.” She murmured, turning back to her silent contemplation as the Latin of the service echoed strangely in her ears. This was the only thing they hadn't made plans for. They had expected, had known, really, that one day they would be separated, by school or marriage or any one of a number of things, ranging from rather silly to downright terrifying, but not this. Never this.

Could she manage? She wondered, looking back into the grave as the coffin, she refused to think of it as belonging to Gwen, was lowered into the ground. Would it be easier, better, to jump now, rip open the coffin and pull it shut behind her, wrap her arms around Gwen, listen to the patter as the  earth was replace, and finally fall asleep, never to wake again?

“Ashling Harrison!” Her mother hissed again, sharp nails tightening on her daughter's arm. “You're embarrassing me.”

“I'm sorry, Mother.” She murmured back, face blank despite the pain. She knew what her mother was thinking. Yes, she was grieving, but that meant nothing. She could behave herself in public. Yes, this was horrible, some sick and twisted game set up by people who knew no sympathy, but couldn't she at least have the decorum to stay still? Why couldn't she be more like Gwen?

Why couldn't she? Because she wasn't her sister. They had never been one person, though their mother had wished they were. A perfect daughter made from the pieces she liked best of the two girls who actually existed.

She had never really known either of them, Ashling mused as she stared at her sister's ravaged face for the last time before they nailed the coffin shut. Their mother had no idea about the deeper parts of who they were. Gwen would be in that coffin, having found a way to nail it shut ahead of time from the inside, had their roles been reversed.

But they weren't, and the only reason she wasn't was because she wasn't brave enough. This had only served to make her terrified of death, so her mother might not have to worry about suicide for a while. She didn't know.

The priest crossed himself and tossed the first handful of soil into the grave, passing a basket around so the other members of the congregation could do the same. Ashling stared at the basket, then shook her head, tears finally welling up in her eyes. No. This was too final.

She turned and ran, vanishing into the thick fog, feet remembering the way, though her eyes couldn't see it. She dropped to her knees beside the weathered headstone, beneath a drooping willow tree, not caring that her dress would be ruined, and her mother would be angry. She sagged against the stone, reaching blindly for a hand that wasn't there, would never be there again. The first drops of rain splattered on her upturned face, mixing with her tears as she screamed unanswerable questions to whatever might be listening, and sobbed for the missing half of her heart.