If the people who sat down and thought for a living sat down and contemplated this, the world would be a different place indeed.
Nevertheless, Smith owes the cat a decent burial. If it was the universe’s fault that the cat was dead, it was still Smith’s fault that it died in such an awful state.
The shovel bite bloody hell into his palms, but the repetitive labor is invigorating. His whole body becomes a machine, an ever digging conduit of fire and water and electricity and soil. Mud makes the process easier and thank God, because Smith hasn’t attempted physical work in ages. His back reminds him as much with each heaping pile of dirt transferred from the grave to the fill pile slowly amassing on his back lawn. The pain is welcome though. It drives love and success and worry from his head. For the first time, in a long time, he thinks about nothing but the rhythm of being.
Pounding the cat’s grave flat, Smith decides no shower. He decides to ignore the phone and time. It’s straight to bed with the futile wish that this moment will go on and on – his body encrusted with mud, dirt under his fingernails nails, earth smells holding dominion over all olfactory sensations – on and on, lying there, thinking about the cat, thinking about how he no longer felt disgust or remorse or guilt, on and on, feeling nothing but envy, on and on, feeling nothing but satisfaction. The cat was dead, which is unimaginable and in its mystery horrible, but at the same time it was surrounded by cool, rich soil. It was held fast and safe by root systems and earthworms and encased in cool, molding clay, like a sculpture in reverse, like history.
Smith did not desire death, despite the current troubles plaguing his brains he was not suicidal, but, down in the earth, waist deep, digging, he felt something like purpose. He felt as if he had finally found something to look forward to.
A return to dust?
Useful decay.
It made him smile to think that in the end, when all the turmoil had run its course and the shouting had stopped and the loneliness became eternal, he would be lowered into the earth to reclaim his place amongst the productive.
Smith sleeps harder than he has in years. No dreams, no Sydney or Isabelle ripping at his heart, no cloudy skies or muted feelings, just silence and darkness. It lasts forever and a day and when he wakes he is disorientated and unsure of the time. His bedside clock flashes 5:33, but he can’t figure if it is morning or night.
It doesn’t matter.
He isn’t going back to work, nor is he answering the phone or planning on rejoining the human race.
His bed sheets are covered in mud and bits of the backyard, likewise for his skin and hair. Smith rubs at the crusted earth sticking to his chest and it crumbles from a caked mass into millions of isolated, dusty granules. Some of the granules catch air and take flight, forming a brown cloud, while the others rain down to join their brethren on the bed. Smith is transfixed, staring stupidly at the rolling cloud when the phone rings and shatters his communion with the earth.
The answering machine spits out Sydney’s voice. She sounds frustrated and demands that he call her as soon as he can. Apparently she sent papers to his work, but he wasn’t there and now she would have to redo everything and…
Smith ignores the rest of her rant and moves to his computer. He wiggles the mouse and his story flashes to life. There is aspiration within, but he can’t seem to concentrate. He can’t make sense of what he is doing.
Writing?
For what?
For whom?
He used to write love letters to his wife. They meant everything and felt good, but suddenly real life became too important for romantic sentiments. Suddenly, there was zero time to think in terms of idealized, romantic poetry. No matter how his systems operated, no matter how many millions upon millions of letters he had left in his heart, time and responsibility and concrete took precedence. And now it was too late. Love had left the building and everything inside was going cannibalistic.
But now this story…
This story…as artificial as the smile he wore everyday to work.
This story…an attempt to subvert and twist and justify creative energy (time).
This story…a horror tale predetermined by guidelines and word counts and validated, or passed over, or savaged, by a circle of snobby judges.
As Smith reads and rereads his work concentration wanes. Satisfaction curdles. The short story that he burns over, the HORROR pulp involving blood and zombies and shriveled cerebellums, is anything but terrifying. It’s escapist, sure, but horrific? Hardly.
Who care about monsters?
Who cares about cliffhangers and narrow escapes and buckets of literary stage blood?
Nothing was scarier than waking up and going to bed alone.
True horror lingered in the laughter that wasn’t there or the strained silences between estranged loved ones.
True horror existed in the idea that it was a seemingly impossible task to write something good enough or scary enough, because beneath the selfish desire to be a writer, beneath the selfish want for family, beneath the burgeoning ache for soil, Smith was nothing. Smith was everything. And when you got right down to it, shit didn’t matter either way.
True horror existed in the notion that he was a billion dying suns, brilliant nebulous light, the derivation of life and love and art.
True horror existed in the fear that nobody would ever see this intensity or that worse, everybody would celebrate it, but in the end nothing mattered.
Close your eyes. Imagine channeling all of your energy into something, be it love, or fiction or any abject career. Imagine the blood, sweat and tears. Imagine the investment of heart and soul. Imagine ultimately failing. Imagine ultimately succeeding. Now imagine dying and fading away and being forgotten forever and ever. There is nothing more terrifying. There is nothing more horrific or wrong or soul crushing and yet that’s life. That’s the standard sturm and drang.
Aversion piping through his veins, Smith shuts off the computer monitor, returns to his muddy bed and tries to envision ways in which to successfully bury himself alive.
Time passes in an impenetrable fog.
The continual storm makes it impossible to tell if it is day or night.
Smith hunches in his backyard and digs and digs
Burying Himself Alive actually begins to make sense.
At first it seems kind of ridiculous; that Smith is just feeling sorry for himself and he will get over it. But the deeper he gets and the greater the fill pile grows the more real the idea becomes.
Why not?
He had nothing left.
Why not give himself to the earth?
Why not join his feline friend in the great hereafter?
Nothing matters anyway.
Work is over, his story crap, and the only remnants of love and hope left inside of him are being shredded by Sydney’s angry answering machine pleas to make himself available to SIGN THE DAMN PAPERS!
There is Isabelle.
He will miss her smile and the opportunity to inspire or whatever a good dad does, but burying himself is probably better for her than anybody. Damaged goods yields damaged goods.
Lastly, he finds himself thinking more and more about the cat, about those days trapped, about the slow death. None of this is particular appealing, Smith isn’t a huge fan of pain (though his calloused palms and aching back are beginning to prove otherwise), he doesn’t relish the idea of dying slow and excruciatingly. However, beyond the physical, he envies the concept of a mental journey. He is fascinated by what the cat must have gone through; the stages of death accelerated. It is just what he needs. It is necessary. It is the only way to lift the storm.
Wandering the Home Depot, people stare and do their best to avoid contact. If you think it’s hard to get an associate to help you, try flagging down a lumber expert or tool department lackey while covered in mud and stink. Smith does the best he can and gets mostly everything he thinks he needs: a rental truck, a box of nails, a sturdy hammer, a vicious looking saw, 50 f
eet of thick rope, loads of 2x8 wooden blocks and several sheets of gargantuan plywood. He isn’t much of a handyman, but burying oneself isn’t that major of a project.
The vision came to him while fighting with the fill pile and at this point the hole is coming along nicely and his plan is falling into place. His grave is rectangular, seven feet long by four feet wide, about chest deep. The excess dirt refuses to stay in a nice orderly pile and keeps running little avalanches back into the hole and Smith tries to throw the dirt as far away from the hole as possible, but like clockwork, as the pile grows, the dirt keeps inching its way back home.
Smith’s Eureka Moment came when he decided to stop fighting with the dirt and to simply harness the fill pile’s quest for native soil. He built a long ramp and dam along the edge of the hole and then piled the fill dirt high. The ramp angles downward and drives the dirt against the dam. He drilled two fist size holes in the center of the dam plywood, looped the rope through them and dangled their ends into the hole. Once the dam is filled to bursting, Smith plans to take his place in the earth and pull the rope and presto! Everybody – the fill dirt, Smith, earthworms, fate, destiny, Sydney, Isabelle, work associates, funeral directors, God, Satan, and the universe – everybody, gets what they want!
Today is the big day. Smith puts the finishing touches on his project, smooths the edges of the hole and breaks up the fill pile with a long broom handle to ensure an effortless avalanche. When all is ready he lies alongside his grave and stares into the overcast skies above. The preparation has made him sleepy and he wants to be wide awake and ready for the landslide. He doesn’t want to cheat himself out of the experience. A nap will help to keep his mind sharp. On his way down, he takes comfort in the fact that this will be his last dream ever.
He awakes to the sound of his name.
His eyes fight for clarity.
Two shapes stand above him.
The absence of sunlight and his sleep-dumb state make it impossible to make out features, but the voices come clear and the shapes take on definition. Smith’s heart flutters crazy with hope and sorrow and confusion.
The moment she notices his eyes blink open, Sydney demands to know what’s going on.
Isabelle immediately assumes her daddy is building a pool and jumps up and down excitedly.
Smith, overwhelmed, surprised, struggles with consciousness a bit longer. Shaking off the groggies, he sits up. Embarrassment floods. He is a mess, and Sydney’s quizzical, disgusted look makes him feel it. Isabelle on the other hand doesn’t seem to mind. She hops into the hole and bends to give him a quick peck on his dirt encrusted head.
For Smith it is a glorious moment, one that parts the forever dismal skies and bathes his stupidity in brilliant light. He smiles for her, gets to his feet, brushes himself off and bends to kiss her on the top of the head. Picking her up, he places her on the grass a few feet from the edge of the hole and then pulls himself out to stand before his wife.
Isabelle giggles and runs off to play about the backyard. Sydney’s eyebrows remain downturned, but the sweet passage of affection between father and daughter is not lost upon her. Her eyes soften ever so slightly and the corners of her mouth quiver. Trying to maintain her bitchy coldness she demands some answers.
Smith has none readily available. He feigns dramatic pause as his brain goes to work. Before an explanation can be born, Isabelle calls to the two of them.
“Mama, Daddy, come play!”
His little girl had jumped back into the hole. She dances and laughs and then picks up one of the pull ropes and waves it obliviously.
Smith practically jumps out of his skin and then actually jumps in after her. Sydney follows, hot on his heels, panicked over the whole weird situation. Smith gets his arms around his little girl’s waist just as the dam breaks. The massive plywood border gives perfectly, the heavy dirt slamming it down. The wood smashes Sydney on the head and she goes down like a ton of bricks. The force cracks the top of her skull. She bleeds, unconscious on the earthen floor of the grave.
Though Sydney took the brunt of force, aided by a mountain of dirt, the plywood powers forward and knocks Smith over. Isabelle falls under him. Smith’s knee twists and crushes her delicate windpipe until her new screams die with a sharp rasp. The flood of dirt fills in the hole. The tumult lasts all of five seconds.
Smith floats face down, encased in mud and thick clay.
There is no sound, no light, no feeling.
His girls are dead.
He is dead (almost).
If he struggles, he might be able to displace the packed dirt. He might be able to worm his way to the surface and poke his head out and then crawl to freedom. But everything he loves twists below him and around him. The earth kisses him in a million places. Beneath the burn escalating behind his heart, there is a cool, calm feeling that he isn’t alone, no longer alone, never alone, finally whole.
He smiles and dirt pushes between his teeth and into his mouth.
He doesn’t care.
He coughs and wretches and takes comfort in the fact that he and his family will be together forever and ever.
BLOOD & GRISTLE
I don’t know when it happened – twenty-five, maybe thirty – but one day I woke up, or one afternoon I got to thinking, or one night I fell into a dream, and now, all day, all night, all I think about is death, horrible death.
All I do is weather chills, and swallow back lumps, and glance about, nerves aflame, what ifs plaguing my unstoppable brain, while I wonder when and where and how and why.
Every few seconds my mind drifts from whatever rudimentary, necessary action it must perform to keep me alive – breath rate, heartbeat, regulation – and it hones in on the macabre.
It used to be sex – the male mind, you know? Every seven seconds or whatever? But now, it’s only death, death, and more death.
Now it’s – what if I die today?
Now it’s – what if I am crossing the street and I get hit by a car?
Now it’s – what if I trip and smash my head on a rock?
Now it’s – what if I visit a doctor and he tells me I have some devouring, aggressive form of cancer, or a malignant tumor, or some rare form of gigantism that’s going to ruin my face, bend my mind, and then grow my heart until it ruptures my insides and bursts its way out of my chest?
These aren’t paranoid fantasies.
So far I’m safe, but these concerns are genuine realities. These things happen to people. Some poor soul, somewhere in this wide, wide world, at this very minute, will succumb to accident or disease. Perhaps the gigantism thing is a bit of stretch, perhaps I should worry a little less about that particular fate, but still, it happens. I read somewhere that since xxxx, over four thousand people have died from gigantism. I can’t even begin to do the math, but four thousand is a fairly significant number no matter how small it seems when broken down and spread out over day to day increments. That a disease as weird (no offense giants) and random can take someone down, out of the blue no less (though most people are born with gigantism, some are struck, out of the blue, in their forties), freaks me out.
It’s not enough to look both ways when crossing the street or to bundle up before going out on a cold day. It’s not enough to buckle your seatbelt or chew your food thirty-six times between bites.
I could be sitting in my living room playing a video game, or watching Survivor with my wife, and something could fall from the sky, a plane, a satellite, whatever, and crash through the roof of our home and crush us to bloody, pulverized bits. It’s happened before, Hell, it’s not only happened before, it has happened repeatedly. Not just once, but, repeatedly. Unsuspecting people, minding their own business, probably playing video games or watching Survivor, have been flattened and in turn killed by falling debris. Shit happens, you know? If it can happen to them, why can’t it happen to you? Why can’t it happen to me? Why can’t it happen to us?
One minute I’m here, typing this treatise on death and dy
ing, worrying about death and dying, sick with the knowledge that one day, mo matter what I do, I will die, and the next my family might be buying poster boards from Staples to affix pictures of me, chronicling my life and times, turning my entire existence into an art project to be put on display at my funeral.
Goddamn, my heart hurts when I think about it!
My chest throbs with fear!
My throat thickens!
Any day now, my friends… Any day now…
Who’s next?
You?
Me?
I suppose that’s why I like the horror genre so much. I love uneasy frights and gory movie deaths because they give me a false sense of security. While the bulk of society gasps and cringes and enjoys their horror, I smile and think, cool, I think, that shit is ridiculous, and even though I am going to die, at least I am not going to die like that.
But real death is anything but cool and I am extremely sensitive about it and it actually makes me all kinds of ill. Though I am a horror fanatic, I am a big, big baby when it comes to the real thing. So why do I write about it so much? Why do my characters die horribly? Why do I have such a deep love for horror? Is it really all about those uneasy frights? Cheap thrills? Why do I torture myself and enable these death obsessed flights of fancy?
I blame media and religion.
Faces of Death, or worse Traces of Death (Faces features a cheesy narrator and staged deaths, Traces blares speed metal and death metal over footage of real life accident fatalities) screwed me up pretty bad when I was a kid. I watched them during my immortal teenage years with my immortal teenage friends. We’d laugh and ewww and ahhh and then rewind and pause and do it all over again, and though the litany of death scenes planted sick seeds in my forming brain and have probably contributed to my ability to write the sick, morbid crap we horror readers love to read, at the same time, once I grew up and came to the realization that I wasn’t immortal, once I realized that I have an expiration date just like all of the poor fools I watched burning and crashing and falling and dying, all of the gross stuff that I used to think was fun and awesome just kind of exploded and just, like, that, True Fear hit me hard.
Blood & Gristle Page 17
