Death Becomes Her.

So she sat there, with tears in her eyes and her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the noise one more time. Just one more time. Her spoken goodbyes were laid to rest with her—buried forever. As stems of lily-white roses lay alongside her blanketed form, the irony grew sweet like a freshly-bloomed honeysuckle.

All the while, even in death, she hoped someone was there to bid her farewell and witness her final moments. All the while, even in death, she begged to be noticed, to be missed, during her final moments.

But no one would miss her or notice she was gone. Because she was never there, and the voices had won.