14 December 2006

Part five of five.

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Dig a Grave

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Leant against the shovel, hands still folded. Dead was dead, young or old. Blonde hair plastered to cheeks. No tears, just rain. No regrets, just acceptance.

Remembered the young girl, skin pearly and white, a body scar. Pretty eyes and pretty face, lips painted red. Porcelain Doll, perfect and smooth. Not a blemish or mark. One tight scar, carefully done. Not Porcelain Doll's fault, not Gravedigger's fault.

Rain fell into the four foot, 1.5 metre, soft dirt now mud. The pile of dirt, the pile Gravedigger had made, tumbled into the grave. Up to the torso in soft mud.

Porcelain Doll never went near mud, never wore brown or black. Would have hated all this dirt and the funerals. Always wore bright, warm colours. Like the wine-coloured eyes. Soft, sweet spills of red wine. Dark and caring, better than a drink.

Eyes shut tight, lips pulled back in a grimace. The memories pained Gravedigger. Failed to love, failed to save, failed to dig. Now up to the shoulders in mud, stuck. Too far gone to panic. Everyone died, and dead was dead. Could not be worse than life. Too unknown, too questionable, but death was certain where life was not. The end of the twisted fairy tale, all that anyone wanted to know. Everyone wanted to know the life, not the death, not till later. Everyone ignored the bones singing for rain. Dead was dead, that was what scared them. Dead was dead, that was what helped him.

Gravedigger clutched the handle, lips curving in strange grim grin.

The Gravedigger had dug his own grave.

Isn't it ironic?

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Fin.