sentences. I make a mental note to tell my wife I don’t want a single word uttered at my funeral. The people who mourn for me shouldn’t be reminded of who I was or what I meant to them—they shouldn’t have to be. Maybe that’s cynical, but this whole funeral has been a shitshow since we arrived at the church this morning. It just goes to show how fucked up our world is. Lately, no one seems to know anything about anyone. A slew of recent scandals has rocked these hills into something unrecognizable. Mock shock and outrage have made everyone a hypocrite. The unearthing of these evil deeds has escalated into a landslide and perception is more skewed than ever. In Hollywood, transparency is an illusion. In our current world, pride is becoming scarce. Even with the notion that everyone is striving to be better, to perfect their craft, to be a part of something synonymous with legendary, it’s only for the sake of the game.
Blake lost his ability to hide the minute he was found hanging in his office.
It strikes me that those gathering today are probably thinking much of the same and Blake isn’t the only thing they’re mourning. Cursing the sick parade, I’m barely able to keep my feet planted as rehearsed words are spoken at his graveside.
“…he was a believer in the good of humanity.” Sentiments ring hollow around the large circle of people wearing their Sunday best, designer sunglasses pressed firmly on their fixed noses to shield rolling eyes. It’s an idiotic and mocking statement in comparison to the way Blake made his exit. It’s far too apparent Blake didn’t believe in anything when he left. He had no fear of an easy departure, of the Christian God who swears his last sin is unforgivable. Hollywood was his God, and before he took the step off his desk, Blake, like the rest of us, knew our God had forsaken us all. We’ve memorized the gospel much like those that surround us, and we’ve learned every verse. We’ve prayed to the shrines and offered up our souls. Blake concluded there was no point, no way but out, while the rest of us scrambled for some semblance of normal.
“This is a fucking circus,” I grumble under my breath. Mila squeezes my palm in her hand in reply, pulling herself closer to me. Searching the crowd, I find Blake’s ex-wife, Amanda, her head lowered as she tries to remain unseen amongst the elite. Like the rest of us, she doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to acknowledge what Blake’s done. I gather this from her posture alone. I stood by Blake’s side at their wedding six years ago as he wholly pledged himself to her. He’d believed in her. I’d never seen him so happy, and I never will again.
“Let’s go,” Mila whispers, tugging at my hand and ushering me through the crowd. My wife knows I can’t listen to another word. In no way should his estranged mother have been the one to make the arrangements. I hadn’t gotten my shit together in time to protest as much. It would be another on my list of regrets when it came to Blake. Though deep down, I knew. I’ve always known at some point I would lose him early. He was too volatile, too emotional, he needed too much validation, and he never grew out of it. He was far too weak against his pain. I hate that I think of him that way, but it’s the truth. His exit strategy is a good slap in the face for all of us in the land of make-believe.
Mila’s heels click on the sidewalk next to neon grass as she guides me toward our waiting car. I’m choking on a thousand words I want to scream back at those still huddled around the hole, the new home of my best friend, but I keep those words within and give Blake the last one.
Mila
My husband is bruising in his own skin, and I can’t take it. He’ll blame himself, he’ll blame his best friend, and maybe he’ll blame me a little too because our life was so far removed from Blake’s before he took his own. And maybe Lucas’s relationship with me is one of the reasons. I was always wary of Blake, of his personality. I was always fearful of the consequences of their entanglement as friends, and I’d spoken up on more than one occasion about my