She stood alone atop the hill, clad in her white dress, clutching a bouquet of flowers in her hand. The wind whipped at her hair and blew back the thin veil covering her face. She did not notice the silence around her as she smiled, staring at eternity unseen. The dark green hillside seemed to suck the light away, absorbing it, consuming it.

It smelled of lavender and spring air to her as she took a deep breath, filling her lungs. Her eyes slid shut and her smile grew bigger as she reveled in the memories.

His hands. His touch. His laugh.

Him.

In the distance, a bell tolled, and she slowly opened her eyes. She squared her shoulders, a look of determination flitting across her face before she plastered her smile back on.

“I am ready,” she whispered, and she began to walk. Her dress trailed out behind her, dragging along the ground, dirt smearing its chaste surface. Her steps were slow, measured, methodical, as if each time she planted her foot it was destined never to rise again.

“I am ready,” she repeated as she stepped again, making her way down the hill. The wind grew more fierce, and she seemed almost ghostly as she proceeded, the petals of her flowers being ripped from their stems as the wind called to them.

His hands. His touch. His laugh.

At last she reached the bottom, and she wished for a moment that her father was there to see her off. A sharp pain went through her at the thought, and she quickly shut it out, tossing her hair in a gesture of defiance. She continued walking, through the darkening light, into the shade of the trees, proud and ancient. The leaves beneath her crackled and she forced herself not to think of the mud upon her gown, of the rips that destroyed her purity. She continued for him.

It was black. It was the deepest of nights, moonless, stars eaten by the leaves of the trees. The blackness surrounded her, until she was the only light, the only life, pale amongst the gloom.

She stopped. The earth beneath her feet was freshly turned, and she knelt, placing the stems that were her flowers to the side.

“I am ready,” it was her statement, her truth. The wind died. The noise of night disappeared. The lavender was gone, whipped away on the air currents.

She was still. For a full moment, she bowed her head to the earth. The only sound was of her breathing.

And then, she dug. She reached into the ground with her gloved hands and dug. The mud marred her beautiful satin, but she dug. And after a few seconds, a few handfuls of dirt, she stopped, shaking, holding her composure, willing herself to stay strong.

She broke. “I am ready!” she cried to the night, shouting as she broke the silence, broke it as her body broke, and she threw herself upon the ground, ripping at the earth, tearing at the soil, screaming as she shucked her satin gloves, feeling the cool dirt between her fingers.

She dug frantically, tossing the soil to either side, not caring that her fingernails broke upon a buried rock, not caring that dirt fell down her chest and into her dress, not caring that she sundered the night air with her desperate screams as she dug.

Dirt flew into her mouth and she choked, her tears mixing with the earth and turning it to mud, streaking it down her face. Her hands bled as they scrabbled, searching for vengeance, devouring the ground with a subhuman need.

Her throat burned as she continued to scream, continued to choke as if grasped by invisible hands, continued to dig as if possessed.

And at last, she found it. It. Her gown matched the wooden mahogany that she so desperately uncovered. Her cries stopped. Her body stopped shuddering. And she caressed that wood with a lover's hand, gazing upon it with red eyes. Softly, gently, she reached around to unclasp the copper bindings.

Softly, gently, she pushed, moving back the carved wood, revealing a red velvet interior. She held her breath, and pushed, moving the lid back all the way.

Him. He lay there, so peaceful, so quiet.

The night resumed its silence as she stared upon him. Slowly, she stood, looking down at her dress. She brushed it off, took a step toward the box, and a smile broke out on her face. It cracked the mud on her cheeks and burned with a sincerity she had not felt for a long time.

She reached the box, pushed him to the side, touching him as if she were afraid he would disappear if she were too rough. Gathering the dress in her hands, she stepped over the edge of the box, aligning her leg with his. She slid inside, lowering herself down, holding her breath against the stench of death. At last her head rested against the velvet, and she turned to face him. She picked up his hands, so cold, so cold, and pressed them to her face.

His hands. His touch.

Him.

“I am ready,” she whispered.