Some things are best left to rest...

Affair

Sam and I just do it...it doesn't mean anything, and we don't do it to hurt anyone. We just need money, and this is the easiest way...on the outside, anyway. We make our way up the hill, just like any other night, looking at the crescent moon for some sort of solace or guidance. Then, just like any other night, we realize there's not comfort in this. They have names for people like us; ghouls, fiends, fortune thieves. We prefer to call ourselves grave robbers; that's what we do. That's all we do. We dig up cemeteries, take jewelry, watches, or anything of value, sell them to a pawn shop or something, fill in the graves, and let the nameless bodies rest. It's hideous, I know, but we don't have a choice. This was the only solution since day one, even though we tried to tell ourselves that wasn't true. We can't find jobs; it's either this or being homeless and cold. We're cold now, under the jackets, hats, and gloves. Somehow, though, this is better.

I have nightmares; not just about grave robbing, but other things. Things that hurt me.

I remember my reoccurring dream; I'm at our house. I think Spencer's inside. However, I'm in the yard, and there are coyotes walking around in broad daylight. The fact that I'm surrounded by light doesn't make it less unnerving. I know it's autumn in my mind. I don't see myself, but I'm a fair distance from my house, looking at some friendly animals that shouldn't be here. Then, I wake up covered in sweat and unwilling to expose my entire face from under my sheets.

More recently, I've been having those dreams I hate the most; the ones that are about our life. I see myself digging up a body; not a coffin, but a body buried under dirt and mud. It's late at night; too late. Maybe around three a.m. When I see the body, it's a skeleton dressed in a flawless pink formal gown. Her sharp, motionless fingers rest across her chest, and her eyes are utter darkness. I take a wonderful necklace off of the stick that was once her neck, give the woman one last look, and then I walk away. However, before I leave the cemetary, she turns her head. That's it. She slightly jerks the skull to the side, not changing the skeletal look about her face. It's almost natural. Then, I wake up screaming, and Sam has to hold me and talk me down to reality.

Tonight goes like any other night; we spend two or three hours digging up coffins, ignoring the markings that give the lifeless bodies identity, collect our pay, then fill back in the holes, drive off, and spend the rest of the dark hours pretending like we're okay with ourselves while driving around the outskirts of Seattle.

Sam wipes the sweat off her forehead, and glances at me. I glance back, look away, and continue digging. I remember digging for hours without making any progress. I never stop, though. I see a skeleton laying in his little hole; he's trapped in there. That's all I know. Then, I wake up coated in a cold, crippling sweat.

Days go by, and we're back at the cemetery; possibly the one I saw in my dreams all those times. Sam's been coming up here alot; scouting the land, she says. Sam never goes into a cemetery without me. "I've met someone," she confessed on our drive over. "Someone like us."

"Are you sure he's not a cop?" I ask, growing concerned. She doesn't answer. Finally, we arrive at the dead grounds, get our shovels out of the trunk, and walk over to a tombstone. Sam insists on leading the way. Once we reach the top of the hill, she stops me. "He's here," she practically sings, her eyes wide open. Seeing nothing, I walk forward. Sam breaks into a sprint, and embraces something. Coming closer, I see it's a corpse; a rotting, decomposed corpse standing on its own power, holding Sam with torn fingers and bones. It's alive. Its body is dead, but it's alive. I can't speak.

Stepping back, I bump into a grave that we must have already dug up. I don't remember anything about this headstone, but it makes Sam gasp. "Carly...it's you," she practically whispers. I turn around, see my pale, still body buried under six feet of earth. My eyes are closed peacefully, my hands are crossed on my chest, and my hair is draped behind me. Unable to breathe, I grab the tombstone, crouch down, and lay myself down in the hole, closing my eyes.