A/N: Some time ago I played an 'art' game by AwkwardSilenceGames on Newgrounds called 'The Body'. Albeit extremely short, it inspired me enough to type out a 'story version' of it. Hope I did it justice.

Play the game here: portal/view/574378

It might be better to play it first then read my version.

The Body

He parked his car at the edge of the park. Under the big oak tree, as he always had. He stepped out of the vehicle, but remained by its closed door.

He had worn his best suit that day, the one he wore on special occasions, the jacket unbuttoned. He looked over the area; the grass, trees, flowers, sky. Everything seemed so gray.

He went to the trunk and opened it, carefully removing its contents: a body bag. He slung it over his shoulder and shut the trunk with a loud bang.

He began walking.

Slowly, dragging his feet, he carried the bag across a stretch of grass and through the trees. He glanced around the area, the foliage appearing to be listless and ill and noting that he was completely alone; not even birds or squirrels or anything else was around making movement or sound.

But then he suddenly felt the presence of someone beside him. His burden lifted, he turned and saw her wavy brown hair and her smiling face and she was walking beside him and was laughing that laugh that he loved and was just so alive that everything else around him did as well and then he found himself smiling too until a sudden sick pain hit him and he realized that she wasn't there she wasn't there she wasn't there—

He blinked and she was gone, returned to her bag that remained on his back and had never left. He could still hear her laughter ringing in his ears. It was light and so full of life that he was then reminded of that deep hole in his stomach, hollow and just so empty, the burden on his shoulders becoming much heavier.

He kept walking.

He continued over the field, entering deeper through the foliage. The grass began to crunch underfoot as the trees around became more sparse and looked so dead (dead) causing him to force his focus solely ahead and dare not look around.

He finally reached where he had left his shovel sticking out of the earth. He carefully, gently, lovingly set the bag down upon the dead dead grass and stared over at the dark lake to his right before grabbing the shovel's handle and beginning to dig.

In and out, up and over, in and out, up and over, inandoutupandover again again again until there was a sizeable hole (hollow and just so empty) that he looked into and hated the fact that he had to place her back into that hole once more.

There was a sudden sound behind him, of crunching (bones) grass and he turned to see another man standing there, shock and horror across his face as he fell down at the sight of him holding a shovel about to bury what was obviously the body of the woman that he—

She stood at the window, standing in the puddle of her own blood, back in the house he once called 'theirs' and he watched her, still holding that shovel; watched that woman who shouldn't still be standing and breathing and living. He came up behind her, stepping into her blood once more and lifting that shovel over her head and smashing it down upon her, again and again and again (again and again) until she wasn't there—

Replaced by that man now in his own puddle of blood and he looked up to the sound of sirens and the sight of those blue and red lights that pierced the quiet so effectively. He dropped the shovel and stepped back, turning and going the opposite direction of those awful sounds and sickeningly familiar sights.

He went even deeper into the park, keeping his pace as he had before. He passed by more bags and more graves that he couldn't recall making and they just seemed to pile and blend together and he could have sworn he heard her laughter again. But it could have just been the sirens.

He continued walking.

He came upon an old shack, the door removed from its frame. He went inside and found himself going back down that isle, flowers hanging above and pews to either side. He had worn his best suit that day (the one he wore on special occasions) with the jacket buttoned, and he was smiling and everything was so perfect as he walked closer to the woman that he—

He stood inside the shack, hollow and just so empty like that deep hole, yet still cold and crushingly silent like a grave. He came upon a shot gun on the back counter.

He stopped.

He held the shot gun in his hands carefully, gently, lovingly (not at all like a shovel) as he looked over to the dirty windows, seeing the blue and red lights but couldn't hear the sirens any longer. He could only hear her laughter. He smiled as he turned the gun upwards and pulled the trigger.

There was a sound of a loud bang and everything was white instead of blue and red. The gun and the hole and the burden were all gone, and the light sound of her laughter rung in his ears again. He turned.

And she was there.