“And so now we commit her body to the ground...
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust... in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.” After these harrowing words of the priest, Belen realized that this was the end. Not that she did not know about the fact during the funeral service at the church, but now the moment of which she was scared the most finally approached. She began to have a bitter feeling, more bitter than anything else she had tasted. “This is quite curious,” Belen thought, “that you can get a taste even if you have not eaten anything. The taste of love, victory, frustration, and remorse.” Her contemplation was interrupted by a sudden high-pitched shriek that pierced the air. It was the mother of the deceased who let the scream break out of her breast. “Oh, poor woman. She may not endure such grief. Who on earth could help her cope with this?” An intense desire to come up to the woman with silver hair and hug her tenderly engulfed the girl. Anyway, what would she say to her? “Sorry, seniora, it is me who killed your daughter… I am terribly sorry, but now I cannot change anything, no matter how much I would like to!” Belen had often heard in the childhood that it had been an unbearable grief for parents to bury their children. In their village, there had occurred some cases of this type. One boy – she could not remember his name – had died of brain cancer at seventeen, Gabriella had been shot by her boyfriend at eighteen, and Alonzo had hanged himself from the apple tree at twenty-one. Alonzo… That gorgeous tanned muscular guy resembling young Javier Bardem. Belen fell in love with him when she was ten years old. He used to pass by their cottage while heading for the filed. When Alonzo noticed Belen, he smiled at her and told her he would marry her as soon as she became the Queen of Sepulveda because he wanted to be a king. She did not know exactly why he had killed himself. People said he had been in love with Italian girl Fabrizia from a neighbouring village, but the girl had got married with an Italian guy and moved to Milan. Because it was suicide on the part of Alonzo, he had never had the last rites. At that moment, the funeral was taking place, which meant that the priest had not been told that the deceased had been murdered. Belen wondered if anyone at the funeral knew she had murdered the silver-haired woman’s daughter. “At least, I have done a favour to the deceased and all the people who hated her,” she tried to joke. Belen knew that the last year of the dead girl’s life had been a nightmare. She despised her well-paid position of a clerk she had in the city bank, hated her arrogant colleagues, and was heartbroken because of Roberto’s getting married. The girl just had no one to whom she could speak so as to unburden her heart. Belen knew she was responsible for the girl’s murder, but everyone present at the funeral might have been more culpable than her. Why had not they paid more attention to the deceased? Why had no one knocked on the door when she had taken a handful of sleeping pills? As the service finished, Belen saw a person with large wings approaching her. The figure was wearing a blinding white gown and had something like a crown made of sunshine around their head.
“Hello, Belen! It is time to go.”
“Who are you? How can you know my name?” Belen asked.
“I am an angel from heaven. I have come to take you to the trial.”
The angel looked just like the ones Belen had seen on the walls in church when she had attended Divine Liturgies with her mother.
“I see. May I say goodbye to my Mum? She is that mourning woman with silver hair.”
“No, Belen. You were able to do everything you wanted when you were alive. Now you have to do what I tell you.”
Belen averted her gaze and felt clutching pain at the back of her throat. The girl shuddered at the thought that she was going to feel pain and suffer even after death. She looked at the fresh grave and read the writing on the tablet: “Belen Martina Ortega. 1993-2018.”
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