He stands a little apart from the rest of them, not wanting to be part of them.

He cannot share in their grief.

He both envies and despises them.

What right have they to grieve so?

What right have they to hurt?

They have merely lost a boss, a colleague, a surrogate father, a friend.

His loss is so much more.

He should have been with him.

He should have died too.

But for his mother he would have been.

Momentarily he hates her.

Hates her for the fact he is alive.

Hates her for the fact that for now, until she dies, he must remain that way.

He hates the children for crying.

He hates Jethro for leaving him.

He hates himself for his hatred.

He looks out across the ocean. It is fittingly grey. He doesn't think he could bear it had it been its usual blue.

He should have been out there on the ocean with Jethro.

He would have been, had it not been for his mother.

He hates Jethro for going, even though it was he who all but forced him to go.

He hates everyone and everything.

He hates the ocean which, like his lover, he used to love.

He hates her for taking his beloved away from him.

He hates her with a passion so deep, do dark, so destructive, it makes him shiver.

As the minister begins to speak, he turns and walks slowly away.

Turns his back on the ocean, on the children, on his friends.

Turns his back on his life.

He knows they are watching him.

He knows they are surprised.

But he does not, he cannot, care.

All that is left for him now is to wait.

Wait until his mother dies.

Only then will it be over.