We finish digging our graves, dug to what we consider three feet, but we don’t worry about measurements.
These deaths are negligible.
Coated in dirt and sweat and heaving, we gaze at each other. We both nod, toss our shovels aside and walk over to our bodies. He grabs his by the wrist and drags it across the grass. I hoist mine into my arms and shuffle over.
They’re both dumped into the graves, and we fill both the holes. He walks to his car without hesitation. I pause a moment to glare at my grave, but I don’t offer a eulogy or prayer, only standing there in silence. I catch up to him, throw my shovel in the trunk, and we drive off.
He drops me at my home, and I go inside to find my wife watching TV. My wife? I blink, trying to focus. Yes, she is my wife. She says “Hey honey”, and I respond with a low “Hey”, but she doesn’t look over, does not notice the mess. I ***** up the stairs, counting the steps, and start a shower.
As the water warms, the mirror reveals someone familiar. No, not familiar, this is me. I get under the warm stream, letting it clean away what is left of me.