Bury Me With It // [Ripley Boys]

Oh fortune, bring fortune,
To spare.
Time's passing, and we're worsing,
For wear. Aching for breathable air,
And, oh my god it's killing me.

It's so rhythmic, the digging. The wooden shaft of the shovel is slightly damp under Jude's hands, as if the wood was weeping, but Jude knows it's just from his sweat. He also knows that it's wrong, this time, all the times, it's all wrong. For Ripred's sake, the body was only buried hours before hand! Couldn't they at least give the body in the coffin a few hours with his possessions before they took them? Nope, because we need 'em more. And Jude sighed, because even though he knew that, it didn't mean he was happy about it. The boy in this grave could have been any of them, the guy was only a year or two older than Jude himself. It felt disrespectful for some reason. Like they were sticking their heads where they shouldn't be. It didn't matter if this was routine, Jude wished that it wasn't.

The mother that had been sobbing over her dead boy had made Jude shiver in distaste. It reminded him far too much of what was wrong in the world, what had become flipped off it's track. When Jude or his brothers passed, the only ones to cry over the body would be them. Not that anyone should be crying over me anyway. The only nice part about the day and night was the hat that Jude got to wear today. It made him happy because he had gotten it off of an old body, meaning the deceased was an old man. He had promptly bowed a bit, as was his custom when it came to taking, and said, "Thank-you kindly, ancestor."

Because anyone who has passed before me, is an ancestor. They know what's going on over there, on the other side. Jude used to think that they had a big party when he was little, and you got your invitation when you died. He stopped believing that when all the ancestors did was lie all still in their coffins, sunken skin and rotted bones grinning up at him. If that was happy, then he didn't want to see sad. The boy who was buried in this fresh coffin was not an ancestor. When the brothers ripped the lid up, there would be a young man who looked like he was sleeping peacefully, if not a little waxen. It could be any of them in there, so Jude wouldn't look at the face, in case it changed, and wasn't a stranger anymore.

Oh chances,
oh forces, of luck.
Feels arid, windows boarded, enough.
Lord, let those skies open up.
Powers that be, forsaken me.

It's alright, the dirt's already loose. That is terrible reasoning. But it's true. The reason the boys are digging is because it will go unnoticed in a freshly turned grave. That's why the most marked days on their calendar is funeral days. Because they are always have the best haul, with fresh clothes, and shiny things that still glisten when you hold them to the light. So unlike all the faded gems that the Ripleys were. Maybe because they weren't gems at all, but broken shards of glass, trying to pretend to be hard as diamonds. I don't think it's working. But Jude nods over at Nino's face anyway, knowing full well that the reason Jude is panting isn't because he's tired from the digging, but it's because he's frightened. Let them believe it though.

I don't want to be the one to lift the lid, but I know I should. Jude is the eldest, it's nt only his job to do it, but it's his need to as the protector, the older brother. So he's already shifting the lid away, wiggling nails out of the wooden coffin. Surge the shovel leans against the side of the pit, taking a rest between jobs apparently. Shovels are the lucky ones because they don't have to worry about faces. And Jude isn't happy, muscles bending as he pries at the new nails. I could let them do it. And Jude feels his brothers grunting at his side as they pull the nails out, ever so slowly. He could just let them deal with the body, use his older brother power over them, and sit back, refusing to look. But no I couldn't.

I sit back before we push the lid over, stars smiling down into our dirty little world. They're so bright that it hurts, because I know that they'll shine brighter than any one of us. I wish I could have protected them from it. There are a lot of things that Jude wishes, things he would change if he could. But he can't. If his father were here, he'd smile and say that there was no use thinking about it. Impossible for Jude, the boy thought about everything and everyone always. Sighing, he dusted off his palms, and said to the brothers Ripley, "I have this one gents, and yeah, yeah, I'll be quick about it. If someone wants they could get the bottom, and I'll nick the top. Bags at the ready, yeah?"

Oh choices, bring voices, resound.
Please be merry, when I am buried,
In the ground.
Nice to have the kids around.
Oh my god, it’s killing me.

( N I N O D E K K A R I P L E Y )

I'll put one foot
In front of the other one
Oh oh oh
I don't need a new love or a new life
Just a better place to die

It's automatic. "I have this one gents, and yeah, yeah, I'll be quick about it. If someone wants they could get the bottom, and I'll nick the top. Bags at the ready, yeah?" Jude steps up by kneeling down and Fitz follows, their too-well practiced hands prying the coffin's lid off and pushing it not simply away, but past a type of boundary most people don't even know exists. Ours are unthinkable kinds of lines, the splitting of otherworldly atoms — sins of a saving grace — and the movements of gods... because aren't they the beings that take life from one thing and pass it along to another? We stole that knowledge, just the same as we steal everything else, becoming the adoptive sons of the Reaper, nicking pieces of passing souls as they're distracted by that ever-blinding white light of crossing over. Then again, sometimes I look at Fitz's face in moments like these, set stubbornly in the dark with that discontented twist in the corners of his lips that he has never been very good at hiding, and wonder if we aren't the ones who've been blinded by that light. Maybe we Ripleys were called into the Afterlands long ago and never followed like we were supposed to, going rogue in the too-bright tunnel of the Gone.

Now is not the time for deep thought, however, and I brush my contemplations away with a petty flick of my fingers, sweeping off any remnants of the good in me with the grave dirt that persistently clings to my clothing. I have orders to follow, after all. With a lopsided grin, a sarcastic salute, and a quick confirmation of "Bags at the ready, sir!" that echoes with a rumbling undercurrent of almost-laughter that only Noah ever seems to appreciate when we're this deep into the earth, I tug open the yawning burlap mouth of the sack and set my stance for catching. There's a small pang in my chest at the inner acknowledgment of Noah's absence, the sense that our movements are suddenly out of balance, that this chain reaction is missing an integral step that could set everything off.

This isn't the first time Noah has gone missing in action and I know it's probably not so much a matter of his footsteps leading him down the wrong path tonight, but that he followed his fists to the flesh of a different body. Few things distract him from his responsibilities as easily as a fight, so it seems the only thing he'll be bringing home tonight will be a black eye and some bloodied knuckles. With such a hotheaded temper, Jude, Fitz, and I have grown pretty used to Noah's wayward distractions, but I can't help noting the extra bristle of tension that seems to twist through the air in his absence, a knowledge that someone will need to take his place... and tonight, I suppose, that'll be me.

I will die for my own sins, thanks a lot
We'll rise up ourselves
Thanks for nothing at all
So up off the ground
Our forefathers are nothing but dust now

A pair of shoes comes flying at me from Fitz's direction and I catch them without hesitation, depositing them into our loot bag without a second thought. Chiding words weaving their way through the frigid air — "Don't forget to check under the little pillow under his head. No need to remind you of the stash on the old lady last week." — my grin fades a little at my younger brother's tone and the undeniable way with which it doesn't possess any of my sarcasm. But there's no time to dwell as one treasure after another goes soaring through the air and into my waiting hands, moonlight glinting sharply off the precious metal or newly shined leather of each free-flying object. Each one finds a new home in my palms before being dropped into my bag and it's not until the barrage stops that I take a step forward, laying a dirty hand on Jude's shoulder as I drop the sack of our newly collected loot into his lap. "You and Fitz count out the stash while I check for any pulls." My voice is suddenly as devoid of humor as Fitz's and leaves no room for questioning as I give him a solid push in our little brother's direction.

"Pulls" are usually Noah's task, the kind of thing that even manages to scratch at my lack of a conscience in the wrong way, but that his infatuation with violence seems to have no qualms about. However, on a night like tonight when the only thing Noah's pulling is a no show, then I'm usually the one to do the ironic filling in. When I take the pliers from my pocket, they feel a little heavier than when I put them there, a weight against my fingers that never settles quite right. Leaning over the coffin's edge, I set myself face to face with the dead man within and deny myself the luxury of reluctance as I reach out an push his lips apart. I'm greeted with almost dry gums and teeth so white as to confirm that he had money enough. That's what this is all about, isn't it? Everyone needs money enough. He had his and, thanks to him, now we'll have ours. Hooking my thumbnail between the two straight rows of his teeth, fingers curled beneath his chin, I wrench his jaw open until the moon has room enough to crawl into his mouth and take a bright white walk across his molars.

They glow in the light the same way as wedding bands on the hands of our victims' widows — with judgment. But there they are, two shining gold fillings, tucked into the bottom left, side by side like armored soldiers. My gut lurches as I haul the infinite weight of the pliers up to clamp around them, his front teeth clicking awkwardly against the metal as I play pretend that I'm a back alley dentist. The thought is comforting in its way, reminding me that we could do worse, take worse, sell worse. Maybe that's why our repo work doesn't bother me as much as I know it bothers Fitz, because I'm capable of thoughts that I don't think he is and I know that there are worse things you could steal from a body than teeth. With a determined tug and a sickeningly violent CRACK, the first tooth shatters against my clumsy effort and my fingers have to dig through the wreckage to find the prize. The grit of the enamel gets caught beneath my fingernails, vicious little fragments like bomb shrapnel, and I'm thankful when the second tooth pulls free completely, the only mess a smattering of congealed blood across the roots. I don't turn to face my brothers as I push my arm out into the air in their direction, offering my findings to them and waiting for them to do what we all do best: take.

I'll put one foot
In front of the other one
Oh oh oh
I don't need a new love or a new life
Just a better place to die