by J. Morgan
She scoffed at the mentioning of his manhood in such a vulgar way, reddening more, eyes glancing subconsciously down to his crotch but quickly going away, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “That was your uh… your first time with a guy… wasn’t it…” he asked, but it wasn’t much of a question. He had a hunch. She lowered her head, wishing to hide her blushing. Feeling the warmth in her face, the feminist hated it, thought it weak; she doesn’t NEED a man, but why does it embarrass her so that she’s only NOW been with one?
“Yeah but well, it wasn’t all that special…” she said it emotionlessly as though referring to the remains of his can of beans that he had given her.
“Haha, ouch, that’s rather cold… here I was thinking that I’d done pretty good, considering the circumstanc-“
“The circumstances?! You really did pretty much rape m-“
The hands on her foot stopped rubbing, his smile gone, tone of his voice more serious, even harsh. “You weren’t exactly opposed to it, though you’re right, I wouldn’t have accepted ‘no’ for an answer, so I’ll give you that. Yeah, I pretty much did rape you. What? Are you going to run away? Tell me you hate me? That you wish it never happened? That you’d like to get your hands on my rifle and shoot me for it?”
“I… you’re… gah.” Her arms flailed up in one motion before falling back down to her lap, words failing her.
The rubbing continued gently, his voice came back, but soft this time. “We might not have much time left… nobody really does. I’m sure you realize that.”
“Nice man-splaining…” she said sarcastically, arms crossed, facing the doorway to her right, the window standing between herself and that very door. Man-splaining; it was what some modern third-wave feminists called it when a male explains something to a female if the female thinks he’s doing so in a derogatory or patronizing way. He was being neither, but ignored her snooty comment. Though at the same time, it made him lose interest in explaining it gently.
“Did you want to die a virgin? I mean, you came pretty damn close yesterday, not just from me, but from that horde you’d brought my way. We both came pretty close…” There was silence then, her arms still crossed, looking rigidly away from him. “We might not be here in a year… or a month… Hell, we might buy our ticket tomorrow; we just don’t know. Forgive me for wanting to take enjoyment where I can- and by the way-“, he continued quickly, adding on a point that he obviously wanted to say before she had the chance to stop him. “-I don’t feel bad for what I did. You tried to shoot me, to kill me. You were nearly the reason-“
She tried to interrupt, but he held up his hand, face showing anger, his voice rising to overpower her before she could even get a syllable heard.
“YOU WERE NEARLY THE REASON FOR MY DEATH YESTERDAY, you hear me?! August 22, 1990 to… fuckin’… August… late August… or maybe early September…” His voice softened, looking down at the bed in wonder now. “I think it’s my birthday… or if not then it was not long ago…” right hand came down to rest on her right foot which he had transitioned to earlier, where his left hand was resting, just holding it. There was almost a look of shock in him, as though he had forgotten that birthdays existed. It had taken the steam from him for some reason.
“Well Happy-fucking-Birthday, now please get out; I want to rest…” outside his sight, her face softened at the sound of his trailing off voice realizing he had recently turned 27, or perhaps even today had turned 27. She didn’t know today’s date any more than he did, but she wouldn’t let herself feel sorry for this man, this bastard who had raped her, so quickly got that mean and uncaring look back on her face then kindly told him to get the Hell out. His look of incredulity faltered, turned likewise to dislike, and scowled at her. No thanks were given to her sarcastic bit of congratulations, so he dropped her feet, ankle socks on the bed next to them, and left the room; door closed harder than necessary.
She went under the covers, covering up in their coolness, willing them to get warm, wanting to feel safe in them, to feel at ease, but she felt bad for how cold she had acted. It was true, she didn’t want to die a virgin, she had thought about being with a man when she was alone in that town, had considered having sex with her lesbian friend until she ended up disappearing. Feared that she would never experience such closeness with a man, and now having been with one, and in such a terrible situation, she hated that she had liked it, so lashed out at him, tried to fool herself into thinking that what he did to her was terrible, that he’d been savage with her.
It wasn’t entirely untruthful; he had slapped her, multiple times, and she DID say ‘no’ a few times while it happened but she did not mean it, did not want him to stop. That orgasm… when he had rubbed her clit, with her ankles and wrists bound, after having been fondled, been hugged so tenderly… just remembering it, and she could feel heat stirring within her; it had been so intense, so amazing… amazing… did she JUST think that? Amazing?! Her eyes clamped shut on tears; what was happening to her? Was she some SLUT?! Some horny bitch in heat who liked men to take her when they wanted her?! She wept quietly, glad to have heard him move downstairs and go out the back door. She wept a little more freely, tears staining the pillow, curled up into the fetal position… and hating that she wanted him again.
He wanted to mutter obscenities, to curse her, to mutter ‘slut’, ‘bitch’, ‘cunt’, ‘uncaring cow’, ‘selfish slag’, anything and everything he could think of, but he was digging a hole, and an elderly couple lay only a couple meters away from him awaiting the burial they deserved… well, ‘deserved’; they deserved better than this, he knew. Maybe it would be better to make a funeral pyre with the wood by the house? Burn them? No, it would be easier but it would probably use up ALL the wood, not to mention it would make a huge smoke signal in the sky. God knows what or who it would attract. No, just keep digging, Richey. Just keep digging.
The sweat returned before long, must be two feet deep in the middle now, and nearly large enough to fit the two ‘comfortably’, meaning side by side, and on their back. Huffing and puffing, he kept on, wondering what the two might be talking about up in the clouds, awaiting their turn to see God and be judged. It was obvious how they’d be judged, he figured. As they say in courts; it’s an open and shut case. He didn’t know them personally but they obviously loved one another, they were religious, their house was clean, they had a nice guest room for anyone why might stay over, he thought that maybe if they were both still alive when the two arrived, they would have invited Tiffany and himself in.
Boil some water on the stove, have a hot cup of tea with the warmth of the fire to comfort them, talk about the difficulties of living without running water or electricity, no doubt they would bring up the fact that they were short on food. Charlie didn’t seem like an angry or crankly old fellow, probably would humbly say that he’s not a young man anymore; can’t go hunting like he used to, but this big, strapping, 6’ tall young fellow should have no problem. Perhaps they’d go for a walk, he could show the lad his old ‘stompin’ grounds’, where he’d get his moose or his deer or what have you. It would have been nice talking to him, and surely Tiffany would have enjoyed chatting with Denise.
Well if the hole wasn’t 3 feet deep now; it had to be close, and certainly both level and wide enough to accommodate the two. A knee was brought up onto the surface, weight pushed on it, and so he crawled out of the hole, not wanting to think of what all the worms he had encountered will be doing shortly. A bowl had been fetched from inside. The worms he had found were tossed inside it, a plate on top of the bowl keeping them trapped. It wasn’t THESE worms he was worried about, but the ones he might have missed, and the ones who would be attracted by… well… he didn’t want to think on it. The captured wormies were left beside the step by the back door; best to keep them in the cold outdoors rather than the warmth inside.
Mrs. Winters appeared to be heavier than her husband, no offense meant, but she did appear a little bit portly which was respectable in an older pe
rson, after all he had heard that metabolism slows down with age. Mr.Winters… the man knelt down, tried picking him up, and with a grunt had succeeded. He didn’t trust himself to keep a good hold of the cold corpse while going down into the hole, so laid him down next to it. Grasping his wife’s wrists, not wanting to handle her broken ankle, nor wishing to make her frail night gown ride up, he dragged her to the other side of their grave. First, he figured he’d tackle the most difficult one.
A moment at the side of the hole made him rethink his strategy. Tiff’s help would be appreciated, but he doubted her feet, mind, or stomach was in good enough shape for this. The elderly woman was dragged over to the end of the grave that their feet will be resting, head in the direction of it, and so he stood there just behind her shot-through skull. Damn, he thought he could perhaps wrap his arms around her upper torso and drag her in. Her feet would fall down the three feet into the hole, but at least it would lessen the strain on him while also not being as disrespectful as simply rolling her into the hole. Like this however, the busted up back of her head would make a mess of his sweater with brain matter, broken fragments of skull, blood, hair, and so on.
Rummaging around inside, he couldn’t find any spare blankets, so some clothing was taken from the dresser in the master bedroom. A turtle neck sweater. Tying the neck closed, he brought it down, sweat drying on him, still breathing heavily from all the moving around. He slipped the sweater over her head, tying the sleeves around her neck to keep her gaping wound covered. Then, wrapping his arms around her upper torso, ignoring the sagging breasts at his forearms, he pulled her back. Once her waist cleared the edge of the hole her lower body dropped alarmingly, but he kept a firm grip. Lowering himself, her bottom nearly touching the ground, he continued back, and the feet dragged along the slightly sloped edge of the grave; coming to rest gently on the ground, he gave a breath of relief. Wiping sweat from his brow, putting her arms neatly on either side of her, straightening her night gown, making sure her eyes were closed, and straightening the legs neatly though avoiding the ankle that currently had its toes pointing towards her other foot awkwardly.
Next, Charlie, and he was handled more easily. Lifting him up from the edge of the grave, he was laid down with a grunt beside his wife. Left arm ended up over on her face, he moved it down to the man’s side, and straightened the woman’s head so that her face peered straight upwards. The elderly man next to her was laid down neatly then, legs kept straight, brushing dirt off from where he had been writhing on the ground though realized it was a futile thing to do considering he would soon be throwing dirt on top of them. Unbeknownst to him, Tiff had snuck the window open, finding no screen on it, and was now peering down where the fellow was making the bodies presentable. Off came the turtle neck from the woman’s head; he made a brief attempt at straightening out her blood-speckled hair, the piece of clothing was tossed for it was now quite gory from the role it had succeeded in performing.
The wallet, which had been on the man’s chest, was returned to its owner’s pocket. Now, he had gone this far, he was intent on doing this right. Inside he went. On either side of the TV in the living room were book shelves. Nothing there really appealed to him save for one about the Korean War, he couldn’t find what he was looking for. Upstairs; master bedroom unlocked, he checked in a night stand. A glass with liquid in it… assuming it was for dentures or something, and AHA! A Bible! Locking the door behind him, he headed downstairs and outside.
Some flipping through this Bible, which he found was printed in 1958, resulted in nothing. Tiff watched down from her window as he flipped through the book, but was evidently displeased with what he was finding. In his mind he was wondering what he should DO with the Bible in the end, should he bury it with them? Leave it on the grave? Keep it inside for others to read? Surely when they leave, other travelers would stop by this house for temporary refuge, or maybe some would even try to stay permanently. He figured the last one was probably what they wanted; keep it in the house for others, but what to SAY before burying them? Defeated, the book was shut, and so he stood at the side of the grave, their feet facing the house, their heads towards the south. Was their heads supposed to face north instead? Did it really matter? He had no clue.
“Ashes to ashes… dust to dust… I commit thee to the ground… to…” he stopped there, not really knowing how to continue, and the voyeur thought it sweet that he was trying to give at least a half-decent service to this deceased couple. “Charlie and…” what did he call her? Shit, he was frigging this up good and proper… opening the book, he found her name under the cover where it said Property Of. He thought it was Dolores, it was Denise. Richards must have been her maiden name. Ironic, though… her last name at birth is almost identical to the first name of the man who laid her to rest.
“Charlie and Denise Winters, I thank you again for the food and the home you have left for our temporary use. We will try to leave the house in the same beautiful shape we found it. I am sorry things went this way, that your last moments together must have been with no small amount of fear, to have seen your Charles so distraught. I hope that now you are together… together in Heaven, at peace, with no more pain, no more infection, with no worry of food and water, or personal safety…” He just went along with it, and Tiff leaned her forearms on the window sill, the window itself resting on the back of her shoulders.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hollowed be thy name, thy kingdom come…” and so the familiar prayer was recited, and the secret onlooker, feet leaving some small spots of blood on the carpet, barely noticeable however, quietly muttered along with him. She had no belief, she was a self-proclaimed atheist, but had grown up with that prayer in school, Sunday school, and when church was attended in her childhood. She knew she couldn’t recite it by herself, but hearing his voice give the words clearly and confidently, it recalled to her the verses, and so she privately shared in them, praying to those who used to own this home that they would safely sleep in.
“For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever… amen.” He had been facing east, standing at the west side of the grave, but now walked around to the east side where the pile of dirt had been shoveled. A handful was picked up, and reflected that THIS was probably the part he was supposed to say that first bit, and so stated it again. “Ashes to ashes… dust to dust… I commit thee to the ground.” The brown handful of Earth went along their torsos, one speck landing near the tear duct of Charlie’s left eye, and one landing between the closed lips of his wife next to him. Richard crossed himself, gave a small bow for some reason, and then started with the shoveling. The last their bodies would ever see the light of day came as his companion in survival watched on, seeing the tall Canadian sweat more, leaving the man and wife in their final resting place.
Patting down the loose soil with the back of the shovel, he let it drop off to the side, breathing heavily… now… how in God’s name should he mark this grave? He scoured the cupboards inside, finding half a dozen cans of Campbell’s soup, various flavours, as well as a box of iodized salt and a half a 5kg bag of sugar. Nice. That’s not what he wanted though… he didn’t know WHAT he wanted. Checking the cupboards BENEATH the counter, he found a stainless steel tray with a handle at either end. What it was for, he didn’t know, but he’d seen something like it before, and knew this would work.
He’d seen something upstairs that will do the trick… what was it… into the storage room he went. Bingo, a tool kit. Inside he found a screwdriver, the name of it he had no clue, but it was the + sign one, and observing those four struts on its end, his eyes rolled. The No.4 bayonet was sharper and would perform the task better, and though it didn’t matter that it was cruciform, those four struts had reminded him of the ribs that went along the length of the spike. Down he went empty handed, shaking his head at his foolishness, scraping the spike from its scabbard. From upstairs Tiffany could hear a hollow metallic noise, something flat, it was strange, and it kept going on over
and over and over and over. The Sun was beginning to get low, not many hours of daytime left. She had managed to limp her way into the washroom, and using a lighter for which she used to light her cigarettes back when she had them, found in the darkness a tube of Polysporin which will help her feet heal. It was applied, and then put her socks back on to keep the medicine from wiping off onto the bed.
Donk, donk, donk, donk, donk, the noise continued, sometimes the ear splitting sound of metal scraping metal being heard. After quite some time, she heard the back door open, and so peered outside once again. He had a metal platter, nothing on it, but it had a bunch of holes in it. Digging at the grave, on the south side of it, just off from where their heads lay underneath, enough Earth was removed to put in the non-punctured side of the platter. With half of it in the ground, the other half now stuck up vertically like a shiny headstone. He stood at the north side of the grave, at their feet but not standing above their bodies, and looked at the ‘gravestone’.
R.I.P
Charlie
and
Denise
Winters
Aug or Sept
2017
He didn’t bother putting on their birth dates; he was getting tired, and believed this was already above and beyond what MOST people get when they die. God knows that he has lived with other survivors who had not made it, but for some reason, he felt he should give these elderly folks an extra show of gratitude. It wasn’t the first time he’d buried someone, won’t be the last, but so far this was the best job he had ever done, and hoped… no… knew… that they would have appreciated it. Grabbing the shovel and the Bible, he went inside after knocking the dirt from said spade. Door closed and locked behind him, shovel leaned up in the southwest corner of the kitchen just next to the door; he sat himself down in the living room, exhausted.