You're twelve. Your neck itches, but that's to be expected--the stupid tie it clearly trying to suffocate the life out of you. You mom makes you wear it anyway, a hazard of being the family to be mourned over.
The house is filled with people, pitying mom and dad and hugging and swearing that everything will be okay.
You know better.
A few slap a hand on your shoulder, telling you "He's in a better place now, Will" or something equally heartwarming. Most give you this look of pain, of hatred. You're not stupid, you know they blame you. And you would have blamed yourself if you could, but somehow it wasn't your fault this time. You don't care.
You don't care.
And as you stare in the bathroom mirror, splash water on your face and tell yourself that repeatedly, then it won't hurt. So you smile at the visitors. Because everything was okay. And you didn't care.