My wife had never looked better than when I saw her lying in that box. Its hard edges appeared to soften her soured milk complexion and gave in to the heavenly emanation of her bottomless sleep. I looked down on her and smiled.
The funeral was damp with artificial light; shadows played ghosts down the church pews. Feeble coughs and quiet mutters shook the silence as I waited for my cue to leave; I was in a hurry. For twenty two years I haven’t missed a single episode of Count Down on channel four and my wife would surely not rest in peace if she knew I had missed it on her behalf.
In my façade I said goodbye to the crinkled, throwaway sweet wrapper that once contained the woman I loved. The church was the finest theatre of all but I never would allow my own body to become a prop for the wicked.
Still, I had played my part in this tragedy.

This is the first draft of a short story I am currently working on. I fear I may be a little out of my depth in certain aspects of its tale but, as my first proper attempt at any fiction, I’m trying to hold down all expectations! 

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