A coven of solemn women stands in a rough circle, dressed for mourning, each with black lipstick, and sporting Doc Martens. Some have hats, some wail, others weep silently. Behind them, their men hover in dark, dusted-off suits with wide lapels, giving away their decades-old style.

At the head of the circle, a man stands patiently, cloaked in a dark robe with a white collar, holding a booklet pressed against his chest.

Darkness has yet to fully envelop the assembled; the array of lit candles does little to brighten the gloom. A burnt orange harvest moon is rising just above the horizon. The nearby trees are slowly morphing into silhouettes before they recede fully into the blackness of night.

Beside the group, next to a freshly dug hole, lies a coffin – simple in design, made from recycled pallet wood and charred all over by a flame. All details of the ceremony have been carefully choreographed to reflect the goth aesthetic that we have lived by.

The women gathered are my friends. We’ve been hanging out together since we were teenagers, bonded by rebelliousness, our love of the gothic and of motorcycles. A short distance away, the polished machines that brought the group here are lined up in perfect military precision.

A similar bike brought me here, too, but via a different route. On a curve with loose gravel, I lost control and never recovered.

You see, it’s my coffin. My first and last time at a funeral.