Eulogist (flash fiction)
You're Not Supposed To Relate To This
I write eulogies for people I don’t know, or didn’t know; never will know. People who aren’t people anymore and maybe never were. That’s why I do it. If I don’t, they wouldn’t get one, and without the words there’s no proof of their existence.
I don’t charge them anything of value. They couldn’t pay anyway, and the families, well, there’s a distinct lack of gratitude when you hand them a bill for a eulogy they didn’t ask for. And after they’ve read the eulogy? I’d advise against it. Charging for them at least. I slip the eulogies to a family member when and where I can. Get in, get out.
I’ve been to enough funerals to know mine is a necessary profession. Unlike me, most people don’t plan ahead with pre-death confessions of love for the people in their lives. As many funerals I’ve been to, I’ve never seen a eulogy written and delivered by the deceased’s family. It’s a trope, a lovely fiction to wrap up the story. My services should be appreciated, I make our dreams reality. I’m not perfect; I don’t expect them to keep everything I write. You’d think that’d be obvious. But I regularly find my gifts in the trash. So, I edit for them.
Five. I offer five revisions, with an editor’s note attached to my final pass in case they still aren’t happy with it. I’d hate for them to toss the completed work. They usually do.
When the big day finally rolls around, I watch from the back. They usually pick me out, freeze up, fixate on me. Cry. Which is convenient given the grief-ridden setting.
How could I write a eulogy without knowing the deceased? Simple. I befriend the family. Get to know all of them. I extract every detail, make sure it’s the truth. And then I arrange the funeral, beginning with the murder.
