This is the last of it, please review! if it had nothing to do with "My Tory's Inspiration" please tell me! R&R!

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“Tory,” her mom was calling through the bedroom door, trying to get in to console Tory. “Honey? Please, let me in. Talk to me, baby.” Her voice was soothing and soft.

But Tory didn’t get up off her bed. She’d been laying there for three straight hours, answering nobody. Her cell phone had rang a total of five times, all from the same person, her best friend Penny, and her mother was on her eleventh time trying to gain entry. Of the three hours she’d lain there, she’d cried at least two. Now, her throat was sore and her head was pounding.

“Tory, baby, please...” Tory’s mother stood there for a second, and then padded off to the kitchen, probably to get another cup of coffee and visit quietly with the neighbors, the Connors.

Once Tory had left the nurses office, she drove off in her car - ignoring everyone’s protest that she was too shocked to drive – and heading for home. She didn’t talk to anybody or acknowledge anything. Her face was dead stony until she got to her room where she broke down in tears.

Apparently, her father had been jogging around the block, just about to cross the street when a car came from behind and hit him. She heard this from her mother’s wavering voice in the kitchen when the Connors first arrived.

The same thought floated through Tory’s mind: Why had he left her? Yes, she knew it wasn’t his fault that he died, but still, why couldn’t he have held on a bit longer so she could at least see him alive for the last time. And to tell him that she loved him...

She caught her breath – she’d been too crabby that morning to say those three words to him. And then the last time she would have said it would have been...last night, after dinner. But then she’d said it so softly and bitterly because she was in a mood that it didn’t really count. Just thinking all this made more tears seep out of her eyes. It’s one thing if your dad dies, but when you didn’t tell him that you love him meaningfully with in the past twenty-four hours of his death just makes it worse.

After laying there for another hour, her mother seemingly giving up on getting Tory to retreat from her room, Tory got up and looked at herself in the mirror. It was all the same: Auburn hair, green eyes red from crying, fair skin that only ever burned and same scar along her jaw bone from when she fell off her bike and cut it on the cement. She angled her head up so she could see it better. Running a finger along it, it struck her how purple it was.

The memory came back as clear as day. The sun was shining and a song bird was singing up a storm. Her dad was right there beside her, guiding her along. What had he said? “Ready? Fly now.” Then he’d let go of the bike to let Tory ride on her own. She kept her balance on the pink Barbie bike and did a couple laps up and down the side walk lined with trees. She’d just past him again when she hit a tree root. Then she really did fly. The memory from there was fuzzy, disoriented like looking through a rain streaked window – it’s never in focus. Well, anyways, her father held her hand as she got seventeen stitches and then took her out to ice cream to “numb the pain.”

After that incident, Tory always looked up to her father as a hero. Not the type of hero in bright spandex with the super logo on the chest, complete with a billowing cape. But the type that would be there always and would never let her down. But that figment of imagination was broken – he did let her down. He left her.

--

“Tory?” the voice of Tory’s mother bounced down the hall, through the ajar door and into her bedroom. “Come on, baby, we need to go.” Tory took one last look in the mirror and sighed. She felt odd in a black dress. She felt odd with her hair down with a side part. She felt odd wearing mascara. She felt odd period.

Today was the funeral. It had been three days and she hadn’t talked to a single soul, preferring to mourn alone in the privacy of her room.

The car ride was a quiet one. Her mother drove with white fingers because she was clenching the wheel so hard. Her younger sister, Allie, who normally talked every one’s ear off, was zoning out, staring at the median line. Tory was silent as ever, of course, thinking of what she was going to say...

When they arrived at the church, everyone was stony and didn’t say a word as they walked into the narthex.

And there he was, white as paper in one of his nicer suits. Tory thought back to the Barney tie she bought for him when she was little. He had proudly worn it to church despite her mother’s titters. Even that small thought brought a lump to her throat. She swallowed it down and followed her mother into one of the Sunday school rooms where the Pastor was waiting for them.

“Cora, Allie, Tory,” He greeted each of them, “Come in and sit,” he gestured towards several colorful, plastic chairs.

Pastor Chakin was wearing all black and had combed his hair over his bald spot. He was so old that you could see the purple veins in his cheeks. But no one cared how he looked; all that mattered were his awe-inspiring sermons (and to the younger kids, his lemon cookies).

He started talking and Tory immediately lost focus. Instead of concentrating on Pastor Chakin’s wise words, she stared at the angels hanging form the ceiling with string. All of them were made out of coffee filters, colored wrapping paper and Popsicle sticks. Each of them had a child’s name on them, like Marie or Charlie or Alex.

A picture of her dad lifting her up to put the angel on the Christmas tree popped before her eyes. She could practically smell the pine tree and the dust that settled itself on the ornaments. Every year, they always put white lights on the tree and then Precious Moments bulbs on the top. But the bottom two branches were devoted to Tory and Allie, always. Her dad always helped her put her special ones on. All the time...

The air conditioning came on with a whirling noise. Rebecca’s Angel fluttered around being so close to the vent.

“Let us pray...” And they prayed, her mind only half listening.

--

So far, three people had gone up to talk: the Pastor, her grandparents and her only aunt. All of them said things about how noble and modest my dad was. Things that you tell people about dead people. Yes, they were all true, but Tory found herself thinking of other traits her dad possessed. Like how to be a good father, and always knowing what to say in the situation of broken hearts and colossal fights with friends. Or knowing how to have fun no matter what: he would always sing oldies songs when he vacuumed.

Everyone stood up and turned pages in the song book. Tory got up to as if to pretend that she wasn’t daydreaming. Her mother prodded her on the side, signaling that it was their turn to say a few words. Mutely, the three of them walked up to the front, and stared out at the singing congregation.

It wasn’t a big service, but still, there were a lot of people there.

The song ended and everyone sat back down, grateful for the chance to fan themselves with the bulletin. Tory’s mother said things, like how he was a good husband, fun loving, a great cook, and how he was just such a wonderful person. People nodded along, agreeing while glancing up at the fans every once in a while, hoping that they would turn on.

Then it was Allie’s turn. She took one look at her father in the casket and ran off, sobbing.

Breath in and out, you can do this, Tory thought as she made her way to the microphone. Just breath, relax.

People were staring at her expectantly. She looked down, her face burning. She could do this, she knew she could. Some power made her look up at the stain glass windows in the back of the church. It was of Jesus on the cross with a verse below it. She couldn’t make out the verse, but just seeing how Jesus died for everyone, something clicked.

“Everyone has been saying great stuff about my dad and all,” her voice was quiet and raspy. She cleared her throat and leaned closer to the microphone. “Yes, it’s all true, but he was other things, too,” She stole a glance at her dad. Was it just her or was he really smiling a half smile? Her stomach soared. “When I was in Algebra, I never got it. I would take my book home every night, and he would help me.” She smiled, “I think it took us an hour to do fifteen problems,” Someone laughed in the audience. Tory felt a surge of confidence.

She looked up at Jesus again. And maybe she was hallucinating, but the verse underneath say, Ready? Fly now. Tory blinked, and looked at it again. It was a bible verse saying something about sin. Looking at her dad again, she remembered how much she looked up to him. He was her everything. He was her -

“My dad was my hero.” She said, her voice booming around the church. People were rapt with attention. The air conditioning came on but no one took notice. “He taught me how to ride my bike when I was younger. And he never let me fall, he was always right there.” And just like that, her dad was right there. Maybe he was a ghost or some other crazy hallucination of hers, but he was right beside her, hand on her shoulder, guiding her along.

Ready? He whispered in her ear. Fly now.

“I guess I could call him my everything.” To herself, she knew she sounded stupid, but she kept on going anyways. “I loved him and he was my reason to get up in the morning.” Her throat was burning but her dad was right there with her, absorbing her pain. “He was the reason why I tried in school because he believed in me.” Her eyes were welling up now; the audience seemed to be holding its breath. “And when ever he said that I could do anything, I believed him. He was my motivation, he was my everything!” Everything was dead silent. Tory didn’t even know that her breathing was ragged until she listened to it.

Then, she found a word that summed him all up:

“He was my inspiration...” Her dad was slowly fading away now, smiling at her. She looked at him in his casket and then up at Jesus on the cross. And just like that, a single tear dropped out.

--

For days after that, everyone complemented her on her speech at her dad’s funeral. And every time she turned red and mumbled a thank you. But truth was she hardly even remembered what she said. She was just happy that it was done.

Tory wasn’t exactly over her father’s death, but she understood it now. She was ready to move on. But she never forgot how much she inspired her to be the best she could be.

Ready? Fly now.

And she did, every time.