fading fast // cait

My eyes sting with the faint perfume of a lit cigar, carried along the wind. My heart carries the torture of a life of lies and stumbling over my own feet to earn my rightful place at the top. My hands hold a burden too great for any God to forgive me for.

The shovel is my Saviour – I am merely the dirt it is holding in place, balanced, poised, ready to be deposited at any moment, for who knows when He will decide I have performed one too many wrongs. Who knows when I will be left alone once again. Who knows where that will leave me.

The sick stench of smoke now fills the deep pit I have spent all night preparing. Soon it will be ready, and soon yet another unfortunate delinquent will find themselves lain to rest six feet underground. Such a shame they never see the care, the effort, the precision. Such a shame they can never appreciate my work. Such a shame. Plodding on through the night, the smoke slowly seeps into my lungs, and I cannot help but cough at the heavy fumes. They do not add fuel to the fire roaring inside of me – rather, the smoke dims it, and I feel my nerve slowly slipping away.

If the fucker wasn’t going to quit it, he’d be the one in this pit sooner or later. Hurling myself out of the deep hole, shovel in hand, I prepare a rough speech in my head. Smokers made me sick.

This paradigm, of course, is quickly altered when I see it is Bone sitting there, the faint speck of a glowing ember illuminating his face, giving himself away to the dark.

My nerve continues to fade, and the only thing I can do to keep it intact is to –

‘Hi, Bone.’

The putrid stench lingers in the air long after the cigarette is put down. Ground into the dirt like it was nothing at all.

Yet I refused to believe Bone could be such a vicious, cruel person, even when everything he thought, did and said rebuked that very notion. The way he said my name in his husky, hoarse voice sent shivers down my spine, such an unpleasant sensation I would have gagged if I were anywhere else. He approaches the pit in simple strides, before he is looking down at me and I am looking up at him, searching his eyes for some light, some good – but above all, some sign he cares for me like I do him. Some sign I’m not just a petty little girl to him.

The search is fruitless, as usual, but this time the disappointment threatens to consume me whole.

It is a good thing he asks a question, and I am able to distract myself from what feels so disturbingly like rejection.

‘Do you ever think about how you’re going to die?

All the time. It is the very thing that haunts my dreams and makes my blood turn cold as an icy river. Even when I wish to escape my mind, I cannot help but question how I will die, when I will die, what will happen when I die.

I have to pray every day that I will not meet a terrible misfortune for the terrible sins I have committed, for the wrongs I refuse to make right.

But not even Bone can know of this weakness. Not even Bone – a man I love helplessly.

I consider my words carefully, taking a long pause to collect myself. The night air is freezing but I do not feel the sting of Winter. All I can feel is his gaze, penetrating me, and I cannot help but wonder if he sees straight into my mind, sees all of my horrible secrets.

‘No. I don’t. But I hope when I meet Death, He gives me something glamorous to go out with. Why? Do you?’

Fuck.

I begin my silent prayer to God, hoping to not be punished for the untruth I have told.

Hoping that Bone cannot see through the lie plastered across my face.

It is a mind game that we play with each other, whether it subconscious or not. Cat and Mouse, where we chase each other ‘round and ‘round, waiting for the crack to appear in the other’s surface. Waiting to swoop in and tear the other down, though I am particularly generous with Bone.

His response is not the one I expected.

Bone, so heavily guarded with walls built so high, has created his own crack, yet I know he is no fool. Even if his confessions were not lies, he is always hiding something. I just wish I could be the one to discover his hidden demons.

Digging for treasure. It’s what I do best.

I can’t help but sympathise with Bone as his breath catches at Altiar’s name. A figure that dark and foreboding frightens even the bravest of us. But it is not the unspoken that draws me in – I do not take the time to investigate the true meanings behind his flaws in speech, for I am enticed by his words, a deadly truth to his inner thoughts.

Amongst his words, there is only one part I hear, replaying over and over in my head, a sickening melody of nightmarish figures.

‘…when the little ones get the better of us…’

I see them crawling from beneath the dirt, clawing their way out with chewed nail beds and criss-crossing scars across their hands. Dead souls, dead children, that I have killed. They reach for me, hungry for my flesh, a harmonious word buzzing all around me.

‘Tiltoo.’

I cannot help but falter slightly within the pit as reality greets me once again.

Death is terrifying.

‘I guess they could all occur.’ I swallow hard before continuing. ‘But you forgot the fourth option.’

The nightmare does not make a reappearance, and I am certain my time of fear has passed, evaporated into thin air. It is too much to hope that Bone did not see, but I know him too well to fool myself with such lies.

He is a predator, and I am a monster. We see things so similarly, yet so differently.

The sense of identity I lost before our conversation has slowly built itself back up again. It is with this growing sense of familiar confidence that I find the strength to hoist the shovel onto the Earth high above me. Arms free, I am able to climb out of the ditch, and as I do so, my eyes do not leave Bone’s. As much as I could hope he would not take advantage of the weapon lain on the ground, there is never any way of knowing. I am playing with fire, a lone tree in the middle of a barren wasteland. Vulnerable.

Standing on solid ground, no dirt crumbling beneath my feet, I come to a halt in front of Bone. I am much shorter than him, and although he towers high over me in stature, I sense the uncertainty in his voice as he questions my statement. Perhaps I will have the upper hand this time. I look into his eyes, challenging him to meet my own and see the passion pulsing beneath my eyelids.

It takes a moment for the words to escape my mouth.

‘There’s always a fourth.’ Words are murmured slowly, hushed, barely audible above the howling wind. Yet I know he can hear me, and that is all that matters.

‘Let me paint you a story.’

‘We do our job well. You, me, Altiar, Lear. We are unbreakable, indestructible. Believe me when I say, nothing will stop us. Not this creaking house. Not the pathetic children.’

Unfortunately, there will come a time when we are too old to do our jobs anymore, and eventually, the only people to remain in this house will be the four of us. No more kids to torture. No more graves to dig. No more fights to endure. Just. Us.’

‘You don’t expect us to leave, do you? You wouldn’t think Altiar would be kind enough to send us on our way, do you?’

‘The answer is no. And one day, he will die, and Lear will die, and it will be just us.’

‘You see, perhaps there is a happy ending.’ I look Bone straight in the eye as I say my next words. ‘But you don’t believe in them, do you Bone? Neither do I. Eventually, the world will fade away, and we will be trapped.’

‘If I had to think of how I would want to die, it would be much more realistic than any of your disgusting theories.’

‘It would be my death by your hand, Bone. Perhaps yours by mine.’ I would never. ‘For the true deliverers of death are found within that which we treasure above all else. That is the fourth theory.’

And the truth is, it’s the most honest of them all.