An original short story based off of a writing prompt.
|The low hum of Marci’s old impala is all I can focus on as I pull into the entrance, past the giant cement pillars displaying their angels proudly. The barely audible crunch and grind of gravel beneath the tires throws itself at my ears, as I pull up to the space of land that I bought one hour earlier. When I finally stopped I almost passed out from pure exhaustion, I had been running around continuously for one- no, two days. I think. I scream at myself to get my fat ass out of the car and go deal with the mess in my trunk. Her trunk, it’s Marci’s car. Not mine, it will always be her car. No matter what. I took slow, heavy steps as I rounded the piece of heavy machinery to the back, preparing myself for the labour intensive work to come. When I popped the trunk I thought I would’ve been taken aback, or at least a little disturbed by the fact that my best friends body was in her trunk. No reaction, not a single one. I guess i’ve done this fucking thing so many times that i’m used to it. I toss the shovel down onto the ground next to the spot bought for her, then I commenced the greatest sin my Catholic mother thought I would never do. Digging the hole that i’m going to put my dead roommate in. Sick, right? I’ve done worse, not that her God loving soul knows that. Stripping myself of the leather jacket keeping my injuries hidden from the world, I step up to the plate, figuratively of course. I toss my jacket into the back of the car before I begin digging the crater that will hold her body until it completely withers away. I can’t believe this actually happened, I thought it was over. I honestly thought it was over. I can’t believe I could be so stupid as to think that they wouldn’t come after us again. They’ll never truly stop. The only time everyone might be safe, is the day that i’m laying in that body bag. But, that’s not an option. I blame Ander. Him and his stupid promises for me to stay alive, live my life. God. What life? How is this living? Having to bury and cover up the deaths of the people I love? I want so badly to just run to the cops and say...what would I say? You have vampires and werewolves living in your city? Well, if that’s my plan, I may as well go up to Lou Rencot himself. The werewolf chief of police. Werewolf. Hell, i’d be digging my own grave, instead of Marci’s. That’s not an option, I know that. It just...I hate that I have no one to turn to for help. I don’t have an army or an arsenal or even a type of authority with me. Finally I managed to dig that frigging hole, all six feet of it. I hate the fact that this is the final stage. The last time I buried someone that I love. Not because I’m gonna make a vow to never let any of the other people in my life die, i’ve already done that. But, because there is no one left. And, I know it seems cheesy or naive to think “Oh, i’m never going to let myself love, ever again.” cause, let’s be real here. I will most likely love again, not for lack of trying to be loveless, but it’ll probably happen, cause love’s inevitable, right? I just always thought that the last time I would have to bury one of them, someone would still be left with me. I’m brought back out of my head by the thought of Marci decomposing in the car. I know that seems kinda heartless since she just died, but the first time I had to do this with Carter, it smelled for two whole weeks. In the entire apartment. I pull myself up and out of the fresh new grave added to Lightgate Cemetery in the Windy City itself. I cross the dirty grass and stop in front of the trunk. Every other time this has happened I had someone help me carry the body. Now, I just gotta hope that I won’t bang her around too much on our way. I heave her up and out, then I got the pleasure of dragging her body over to the pit where she gets to decompose for the rest of my days. I lay her down as gently as one can when pulling and dropping a body into a grave. I got her in and just started shovelling in dirt. I knew that if I stopped, even for just a second, that I was going to either break down in tears or pass out. I get all the dirt on, really pack it in there, and then it was time for the marker. I didn’t have much after paying for the spot so early after her death, dealing with the death certificate, and her family, that I didn’t get to give her the coffin she deserved or the tombstone she wanted. So, I found a rock behind our building, bought a tiny hammer and chisel from the local hardware store, and I put my artistic abilities to the test. I set the shovel into the trunk and lift the rock out, then I carry it over and place it just above the top of the hole. I can’t keep doing this, watching as people die, burying them, lying to their families about what really happened. It has to be officially over. But how am I gonna manage that? I didn’t know what to do, I just knew it needed to stop. Grave after grave after grave. I got tired of burying my friends.|