The Elephant Island Chronicles

Pree-sents

Anthems of Mourning

By Gio Marron

Narration by Eleven Labs

The funeral home's parking lot was empty now, except for Parker’s car and the caretaker’s Buick idling near the side exit. The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting long, uneven shadows across the cracked pavement. Parker sat behind the wheel, his hands resting limply on his thighs, staring out through the windshield at nothing.

His borrowed suit jacket, a size too big, felt stiff and foreign, the fabric scratchy against his neck. He had forgotten to take it off after the service, and now it hung on him like dead weight, a reminder of everything he was supposed to feel but didn’t. Or couldn’t.

The silence inside the car pressed against him. It wasn’t real silence, though. It was the faint hum of the engine, the creak of the seat as he shifted, and the distant sound of birds somewhere overhead. But to Parker, it felt like a void, like the air had been sucked out and left him sitting in a vacuum.

His hand drifted to the key in the ignition, but he didn’t turn it yet. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere that mattered.

The funeral had felt like a bad dream. Too many people, all of them speaking in hushed tones, saying the same useless things. We’re so sorry. They were too young. If you need anything… He hadn’t known how to respond, so he just nodded. When someone had handed him a cup of lukewarm coffee, he’d taken it, though it sat untouched in his hands until it grew cold.

And then there was the music. He’d let others decide, unable to muster the energy to care, but the choices had clawed at him all the same. Soft, solemn hymns. The dusty organ. A song someone had said was “their favorite” but didn’t feel right at all. None of it matched the hollow ache inside him, the raw, jagged edges of his grief.

Parker exhaled sharply, his chest tightening. His hand trembled as he turned the key, and the engine grumbled to life. Almost on instinct, he hit the radio’s power button.

The speakers burst to life with a jangly guitar riff and an upbeat tempo that made him flinch. He stabbed at the buttons, cycling through stations: static, a tinny country ballad, more static, then an ad for a car dealership. Nothing.

There’s nothing for this, he thought, his jaw tightening. No song for this.

He slammed the power button again, silencing the radio, and gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned white. The tears prickled at the edges of his eyes, but they wouldn’t fall. They hadn’t all day. Not when he stood at the graveside, not when they lowered the casket, not even when he’d turned away and walked back to his car alone.

It felt like something inside him had snapped shut and locked, a dam holding back what he couldn’t face yet. Maybe he never would.

Parker finally shifted the car into gear and pulled out of the lot, driving aimlessly. He didn’t want to go home. The silence there would be worse.

Parker drove with no destination in mind, his grip tight on the steering wheel. The streets were too bright, too loud, the sun cutting through the windshield like it had no business doing so. He turned onto a side road, then another, letting the car wind through neighborhoods he didn’t recognize. It didn’t matter where he went. Everywhere felt the same—wrong.

A woman jogged past on the sidewalk, her ponytail swinging in rhythm with her strides. She wore headphones, her face calm and focused like this was just another day. It probably was for her. Parker’s jaw clenched. He wanted to roll down the window and yell something, though he didn’t know what.

Instead, he just stared ahead, his mind running in circles.

It wasn’t fair. None of it. Not what had happened and not the fact that the world just… kept moving. People were out here living their lives like nothing had changed because nothing had changed for them. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know.

But that didn’t make it any easier to see.

At a stoplight, Parker glanced to his left and saw a family sitting outside a coffee shop, laughing about something he couldn’t hear. The father gestured wildly, his expression animated, while the kids giggled over their drinks. A sharp pang twisted in Parker’s chest. He forced himself to look away, fixing his eyes on the red light instead.

How can they laugh like that? he thought bitterly. How can anyone?

The light turned green, and he pressed the gas pedal harder than he needed to, the car jerking forward. The anger was fleeting, replaced almost immediately by guilt. He didn’t have the energy to hate strangers for being happy. But it still stung—this reminder that his grief was invisible, unnoticed by everyone else.

It was nearly an hour before he realized where he was heading.

The record store sat on the corner of an old brick strip mall, its faded neon sign buzzing faintly in the window: Sound Waves. The place hadn’t changed in years, the same posters taped to the door, the same racks of discount CDs spilling onto the sidewalk.

Parker parked out front and killed the engine. He sat for a moment, staring at the storefront, his fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel. He used to come here all the time. They used to come here.

For a second, he considered leaving. What was the point? He already knew no song could fix this. No melody could put words to the hole in his chest. But he didn’t want to go home, and there was nowhere else to be.

He stepped out of the car and walked inside, the bell above the door jingling as it swung shut behind him.

The smell hit him immediately—dusty cardboard and cheap incense, the scent so familiar it made his stomach twist. He kept his head down, avoiding the counter, where the store owner—Rob, he thought his name was—sat flipping through a magazine.

The rows of records stretched out before him, chaotic and cluttered, arranged in no real order. Parker started down one aisle, running his fingers over the spines of the albums without looking too closely.

There was no plan. No idea of what he was looking for. All he knew was that every song he’d heard since the funeral had felt wrong—either too cheerful, distant or just… empty. But music was supposed to mean something. It was supposed to help.

“Need any help?”

The voice startled him. Parker looked up to see Rob watching him from behind the counter, his face lined but kind.

“No,” Parker said quickly. His voice came out too sharp, and he winced. “I’m just… looking.”

Rob nodded, unfazed, and went back to his magazine. Parker let out a slow breath and turned back to the shelves.

Parker moved deeper into the store, his gaze drifting over the shelves without really seeing them. His fingers traced the edges of the records and CDs, but none of the names or covers stood out. It felt like going through the motions, like pretending he had a purpose when all he wanted was to stop feeling so untethered.

The faint hum of a song played over the store speakers—a jangly pop tune with upbeat vocals. Parker gritted his teeth and moved farther down the aisle, away from the sound. It was too bright, too shallow, the kind of music that belonged to people who didn’t have to think about what it meant to lose someone.

He turned a corner and found himself in a section they used to visit. The memory crept up on him before he could stop it: the two of them huddled here, shoulder to shoulder, flipping through records and debating over which one to buy. He could almost hear the sound of their laughter, muffled but warm, like the way the light used to slant through this place on lazy afternoons.

What about this one? They’d said once, holding up an album with a ridiculous cover—a 70s rock band posing in leather pants and way too much fringe. He’d snorted, shaking his head.

No way.

Come on, you don’t know. It could be life-changing, they’d teased, their grin widening as they added it to the stack. Trust me.

He’d rolled his eyes but let it slide because that was how it always went. They’d pick albums he never would have chosen on his own, and half the time, they’d end up being right.

Parker felt his chest tighten, the memory sharper than he wanted it to be. His hand froze on the edge of a record, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, the store felt too small, the air too thick.

He blinked hard and pulled his hand away, shoving it into his pocket. He didn’t want to remember. Not here. Not now.

Somewhere behind him, the music shifted to another track, slower this time—a ballad with a mournful edge. Parker’s shoulders tensed as he listened to the lyrics, something about heartbreak and longing. He couldn’t place the artist, but it didn’t matter. The words skimmed the surface of his feelings without sinking in, like all the other songs he’d heard this week.

It’s not enough, he thought bitterly, his hands clenching into fists. It’s never enough.

The frustration rose in him again, hot and choking. He wanted to grab the nearest record, hurl it across the store, and watch it shatter. He wanted to scream at the strangers browsing casually around him, the clerk behind the counter, and the entire oblivious world for daring to keep spinning while his had fallen apart.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, his movements stiff and jerky. As he pushed the door open, the bell jingled again, stepping out into the fading evening light.

Parker leaned against his car, his breath coming in shallow bursts. The anger drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving only the familiar hollow ache. He rubbed a hand over his face, the skin cold against his palm.

He’d thought coming here might help. Maybe, somehow, he’d find the song he was looking for—the one that would finally break through the numbness and let him feel everything he’d been holding back. But it wasn’t here. Maybe it didn’t exist at all.

Parker slid into the driver’s seat, the car creaking as he settled in. The faint smell of old upholstery greeted him—familiar but uninviting, like everything else in his life right now. He rested his hands on the wheel and stared through the windshield, not bothering to start the car.

The street outside the record store was quiet, just a few people walking by, oblivious to the weight pressing down on him. A man in a suit hurried past, clutching a briefcase and checking his watch. A teenager on a skateboard coasted lazily down the sidewalk, the wheels clattering against the uneven pavement. Parker watched them as if they were from another world, one that didn’t have space for grief.

He finally turned the key, the engine sputtering to life. He wasn’t sure why he’d stayed in the parking lot so long. There was nothing here for him, no answers, no relief—just the same ache and hollow emptiness that followed him everywhere.

The drive home was quiet. He didn’t bother turning the radio back on. The silence was easier to bear than the wrong songs, which felt like cruel parodies of what he needed.

The streets blurred past, lit by the warm glow of streetlights as the sun dipped below the horizon. Parker tried to focus on the road and the simple act of driving, but his thoughts kept looping back to the store, to the memory of their voice and laugh. The way they’d always known which albums were worth listening to, even when he didn’t.

It wasn’t fair.

That thought sat like a stone in his chest, heavy and immovable. It wasn’t fair that they were gone. It wasn’t fair that the world didn’t stop for this, that people were still skating down sidewalks, buying coffee, and laughing like nothing had happened. It wasn’t fair that he was the only one carrying this weight.

By the time Parker pulled into his driveway, the sky was dark, the faint hum of cicadas filling the air. The house loomed in front of him, its windows black. He sat there for a moment, staring at the front door, unwilling to go inside.

Inside, the house was quiet. Too quiet.

Parker dropped his keys on the counter and stepped out of his shoes, his movements sluggish. He didn’t bother turning on the lights as he made his way to the living room, where the stereo sat in the corner, surrounded by stacks of records and CDs.

The clutter hadn’t bothered him before. It had been their thing—collecting albums, debating which ones deserved a place of honor on the shelves. Now, it just felt like a mess, a reminder of what wasn’t here anymore.

He sank onto the floor in front of the stereo, pulling a stack of records into his lap. His hands moved automatically, flipping through the covers without registering them. Each one felt wrong. Too loud. Too shallow. Too… empty.

Parker’s breath hitched as he stopped on an album they’d picked out together, the ridiculous one with the fringe-wearing band on the cover. He hadn’t listened to it since. The sight of it now made his chest ache, the memory sharp and vivid.

He set it aside, not ready to face it. Not yet.

Instead, he leaned back against the couch, his head tilting to rest against the cushions. His eyes drifted shut, but the darkness behind his eyelids was no better than the empty room. The memories pressed in, unrelenting: their voice, their laugh, the way they’d filled every quiet space in his life.

Parker’s chest tightened, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He curled forward, his arms wrapping around his knees as the dam finally broke. The tears came fast and heavy, spilling down his face and soaking into the fabric of his jeans.

He stayed like that, the sobs shaking his shoulders, until the room faded into nothing but the sound of his grief.

The End

From all of us here at the Elephant Island Chronicles, we hope you have enjoyed this original short story by Gio Marron. Until next time, stay curious.

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