A Grave Delirium

Jacob has a problem, one with which he only has a very special remedy for.

Speeding down Interstate five, cars flashed by Jacob’s ballooned irises, their taillights red rubies in a sea of black abyss. He clenched the steering wheel, his cigarette dangling from his lips and threatening to plummet. He breathed in heavily, intoxicating his body with a sweet touch of nicotine. Then, a thought crossed his mind, like a slug sliming across sandpaper, and he snatched the cigarette and flung it towards the open window. It bounced back, blowing into his lap. He didn’t notice; not until the unwholesome smoke of his burning flesh sent signals of pain rearing through his brain did he yelp out in pain and retrieve the smoldering cancer stick, making sure he thoroughly disposed of it the second time around.


            The searing pain in his crotch nearly made him miss his exit, but he swerved over and caught it, almost having guardrail as a midnight snack. In town, only one car passed him in the deserted streets; everyone else was in bed, dreaming peaceful (or nightmarish) fantasies, recharging their brains and defragmenting their memories. Jacob clenched his teeth hard to stay focused. Soon now, he thought, he would have that rest, that peace of the mind. Soon, his incomparably long day would come to an end.


            He slowed his tires, flicked off the head lights and glided down an unlit street, like some shady drug dealer looking for a quiet sell. Finding a spot a good deal away from his destination, he parked his car, hopped out, and grabbed his shovel. As silent as an apparition, he maneuvered his way over a spiky steel fence along the sidewalk and thumped hard onto the other side.


            Peaceful Rest, he thought. The name of the place comingled with his desire, and his face slid slowly into a mad grin. Only he could find this place to be Heaven. He ambled along, his shovel scraping the ground like a lame leg, as he guided himself by pure memory through the lonely lanes. The night air was cool and moist, but he never felt it through his numbed delirium. This was a good sign, though: the soil would be perfect for digging.


He kept walking, like a living corpse amongst his sleeping brethren. The grave he was looking for was located way in the back, the tombstone rain-polished to the point of illegibility; the perfect kind for his purpose. The corpse would be turned to bones turned to maggot feed turned to dust; there would be no putrid scent of decay to staunch the flow of his dreams. And, namely, no family members to visit their long lost loved one in a deserted corner of a forgotten section of an ageless graveyard. He would be alone--all alone. Perfect.


            He tripped over something in the dark, sprawling out over the stone culprit. Looking around, he noted the acid-eaten cherubs and moss-entwined mausoleum. He knew those signs, he was here. He had found the grave. Rolling off of it, he buried his shovel into the earth. Shovel full after shovel full he dug like a machine, a worm seeking solace. The metallic smell of the upturned soil hit his nostrils, fueling his tired, worn out husk into a frenzied battle with the ground. He dug and dug, the only thing on his mind the black pit he was digging for; his silent box—a buried treasure—where he could finally shut his eyes to the world. Where he could finally sleep.


With his energy quickly depleting, he heaved one of his last great stabs into the hole. His shovel connected with something, clanging hollowly into the night air. He dropped to his knees and kissed the rotting timber of the inurned.   

The End

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