Treachery

Graverobbing is a treacherous thing. A man with one eye told me that once; I do not know if I believe him. We do what we must to survive and I frown upon no action. No matter how "treacherous" it may be. It is easy to title an action as good or bad, but how about you try being on the receiving end of that judgement. If you are judged good, all is right with the world. If you are judged bad, you will go kicking and screaming just as everyone else does.

So, as I do every night, I left my disheveled home for the comfort of the shovel and pick. I repeat to myself, as always, that I am only doing what I must to survive but I know that is not true. This fact carves at my insides like a golddigger who just struck the jackpot. I drink on the way, maybe a bit too heavily. I stumble and fall, cracking my skull on the hard stone of the street. Delirious, I attempt to stand. With the drink having numbed my senses to the point of oblivion, I feel the world teeter totter around me. I die but not before unleashing the contents of my stomach unto the soft warm stone of the street.

Up and away I went: out of my mortal coil, down the cobble streets, through the old stables I used to lurch around, around the statue of a presumed prestigious mayor, and up into that beautiful dark purple sky.

My world shrinks before me until I am left in the abyss of the aether. Have you ever tried seeing out of your elbow? Well, that doesn't begin to describe the level of emptiness I was experiencing then. It was... sublime; for the first time in my life, the noise just washed away and I was left with only the impression of light. This deep ominous darkness cradled me like a swadled babe. I could not have rested any better than that.

Then, I was jostled awake by drunk passerby. He shook me as if my life depended on it or something. I will not describe how I sobbed, cried, moaned, groaned, or begged. Instead, I will only say that I have an unhealthy obsession with death now. I have tried stabbing, choking, drowning, and poisoning myself but nothing will get the job done. Meanwhile, the people who once shunned me, now treat me with kindness and respect.

I cannot stand it! I want sleep, I want the everloving embrace of the night to take me but not a single arrow can take my soul from me.

I can never have that now, though. I have spent my life stealing the sleep from the dead and disturbing the rest of those who have passed. I... hate what I have done and what I have become. I wander the streets at night looking for death, but during the day I act as a man reborn. That man I am is not me but I cannot stop him from taking over.

So, I set up a plan. I cause the particularly gruesome death of a neighbor and I feign my flee into the forest. Then, I hid inside the morticians home until he finished dressing up the body but even he was not skilled enough to clean my mess. As they moved the body to the carpenters for a new casket, I followed close behind with not a soul noticing me. Once they had placed the body in the casket and prepared to set its lid, I made a distraction by setting a fire to a nearby home. With that complete, I removed the body and dumped it into the river. I replaced him with my lively corpse and I waited for my death to come. The funeral arrives and I hear the symphony of sadness that these events always bring about.

Then, it came. Thud. Thud. Thud. The not so descriptive sound of soil being shoveled onto my new home. As the weight of the air increases I begin to feel sleep take me and I feel my eyes finally close in eternal slumber. Until I am shaken awake by a very confused looking man, he looks at me with shock, then anger, then fear. I throttle the man for disturbing me, I curse his life into the sky. I just wanted sleep but I am not even gran- wait, something has changed. This is not my graveyard.

Where are the rose bushes around the noble families headstones?

Where is the church with its stained glass murals?

Where have my clothes gone?

Why are there great towering beasts of glass lumbering in the distance?

No, I refuse this. I pull myself back into the grave and close the lid.

I tremble, shake, and quiver. Why do I feel so cold?

Where is this sense of dread coming from?

Why can I not control the tremble of my heart?

I close my eyes and open them again. I am looking into the face of a drunk passerby as I lay on the soft warm stone of the street. I laugh. I laugh. I laugh.