Gravedigger

People die. They do it all the time. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Even with all the fancy shmancy new technologies we've got, and all the shiny hospitals with their shiny doctors, people die. Not that that bothers me. I'm smart, see. I make death my business. Not dealing it out, oh no. That's for fools and heroes. But throughout the ages, two things have remained the same: death and grave digging. Okay, so it's not really grave digging. I make the headstones. But still. As long as people die, I'll have business. And, as I've said, people do it all the time. Death is a funny thing. Things happen in the Black. Strange things. But Death isn't picky, and Death won't pause for love or hate. Still, I can't stop the chills sometimes. When you do Death's dirty work, you have to wonder about the darkness in people. In life. In the Black. Did you know that when a fire starts, the places that it burns to the point of coal and charred bone are called the Black? The living come in stages. Stage A, as I like to call it, is Noble Grief. They bear their pain like badges, heads high and proud and tearful. These people usually come alone, standing tall and speaking firmly. They buy headstones with things like 'He was a good man, that lyeth here today' engraved on them. Stage B is Inconsolable Grief. The ones that come in bunches, clinging to each other, wailing. They buy elaborate headstones and beg my pardon when they cry on the coffins. Stage C is Stoic Grief. These people can come alone or together, but they never cry. They speak softly, eyes hard and bright to keep the tears back. I've grown immune to the stages. I suppose if you deal out death, you develop a kind of mental shield. I do the same, protecting myself while I clean up after the living. That shield almost never cracks. But it cracked that day. They came in as a group, elbows and coats brushing against one another as they walked. A man led the way, his brown coat swaying. He walked with a limp, and one arm was unconsciously held a little closer to his side, as if it hurt there. His face was a strange mix of pain, pride and anger. There were two people with him. The first was a woman in a brown vest. She was expressionless, eyes dry. The second was another woman in fine silks, her beauty gathered close and set alight. She was watching the man, her hand gently resting on his arm. I placed them in stage C. “What can I do for you?” I ask it every day. “Two,” the man said shortly. “We'll do the engraving ourselves.” “Are you sure? I can-” He met my eyes, his two companions doing the same. In that moment, my words failed me. I have never seen eyes like that and I hope I never will again. And they looked into the abyss and saw a darkness there like none other. My father once read me a story with that line, and that line played through my head then. These people had looked into the abyss, and had come back from it. But they hadn't come back alone, oh no. When you look into the abyss, my boy, the abyss looks into you. When the abyss looked into these people, what did it see? And what did it send back inside them? I get shivers just thinking about it. Those first chills didn't go away 'til long after they were gone, headstones in tow. So yeah, people die. They do it all the time. But sometimes, I have to think... Maybe dead is better.