The rain has slackened off, and the master sergeant had finished speaking. On the coffin stood a picture of the boy in the room, a long face, spotted with blemishes. He smiles flashing white teeth. The rows of black chairs gleam in the sunlight. The people, dressed in equally black clothes sat silent, staring into space, looking at the smiling boy, or sobbing into their hands, or each other’s shoulders.

A tall boy, his chin blackened with stubble that makes him look as if he had just come out of a coalmine, holds a shorter girl close to his chest. Sobs wrack her frame, but they are dry, she has no more tears to cry. Red tear lines trace down the boy’s face. Two other boys stand together, one, clean-shaven, the other with beard hair spotting his chin, and neck. The Ave Maria rings out, sung beautifully by a short, round man in a long coat, and German-style hat. A fresh wave of tears comes to the boys eyes.

A man approaches the boys, leaving the boy and the girl to their embrace. He is dressed the same way as the speaker, only his insignia is different. He is Native American, and his face too, is tear stained.

“I knew Thomas from the eighth grade.” He glances at the picture on the coffin. He holds a red burette in his hand. “We had so many good times together, it’s so hard,” He does not finish, but tears cut off his statement. The boys come together and embrace him. “I’m sorry,” He says. A light comes into his eyes, as if he is recalling some grand event, in some faraway place. “He was a hero.” He sobs out, his voice broken by pain. “He was a hero.”

Thomas sits in a classroom, his head on his hands, feigning sleep. He is not tired; he just doesn’t want to talk. He thinks about how much he loves her, and how little she knows about him. It tears him apart inside, but he cannot stop loving her. He has to get away; he has to take out all this rage, all this pain inside him.

Thomas dropped out of high school. The middle of his junior year, he went and dropped out. That very same day, he went and talked to an air force recruiter. He left a note for his parents, withdrew his savings, and got on a bus to Wisconsin. When he reached Madison, he looked up an old friend.

The sky was gray, and it was cold out. Thomas walks along the sidewalk, towards a run-down apartment. There he sees Jon, a short Native American boy. “Hey Jon, you piggeldy some-bitch it’s me!” Thomas shouts.

“Hey man, what the hell are doing around here?” Jon yells back as he runs down the steps to greet him. “Get your shit man, were headed to the airport, the force is picking us up.” Jon looks at him quizzically “What about school man?” “Man, fuck school!” Thomas shouts back. They race off, bags in hand and in that moment, they are invincible. No force can bring them down; no siren song can turn them.

Thomas sits next to Jon in a library, using the computers. The familiar chime rings out every now and then. Jon can see flashes of conversation, pleas to come back, demands for logical thinking. He can make out snippets, “Tom man, you’ve got to think about what you are doing, you’ve got to come home man. Everybody misses you, even syd.” Then Thomas types a few words, and shuts down. “Hey man, are you okay?” Asks Jon. Thomas nods.

The service has moved inside the church now, for the rain has returned, with vengeance. It pounds on the roof, as if trying to get inside and wash away these people. A man stands behind a dark oak podium. He wears a floor length black robe, glasses, and a white stole. On one side of this, there is a green dove. On the opposite, a purple cross. He projects his voice, to reach the farthest corner, and drive out the specter of despair looming over the proceedings.

“Sometimes the good lord takes away those we love. We humans are mortal we all pass eventually. It is easy to lose track of what is important in these dark times. The important thing is that Thomas died a hero, not that the lord took him away.” The sermon would continue for another hour and then the minister would sit down, but the rain ended for no man.

Thomas sits in a hotel room, tears stream down his face. On his knees his thoughts flash back to five years previously. Thomas was in a bad way, he was finding himself, and experimenting. He was breaking away from his parents and all the normal eighth grader symptoms. He remembers the day as if the entire scene was burned into his retinas. He remembers the cool Sunday breeze, contrasting to the may heat on his skin. He remembers pulling a cigarette out of his pocket, and lighting up. The tip flared for a moment, as he sucked in that sweet first breath of cancer, it sinks back into a dull glow.

He walks, passing house after house, until he reaches a playground. Before he saw them his intent was to just walk by it. But god was not with those boys that day. Remembering each of their faces brings a fresh wave of tears. They roll down his cheeks like miniature crystals growing smaller and smaller until they drop from the cliff of his chin and onto the sea of carpet.

Rays of saffron sunlight pierced the clouds. The boy pads onward, but is stopped by the sight of three boys kicking a soccer ball on the playground. One stops and points. They stare for a few seconds, and the third flips him off. Thomas cries as he sees himself spit the cigarette out and run toward them. Thomas pulls a nine millimeter handgun from his left pocket, and shoots the first boy in the head. The sunlight becomes blinding, the heat oppressive, the cold freezes him to the bone. He executes the second, and the third. He turns, and runs away.

“God forgive me” Thomas pleads.