The Gravedigger

The shovel makes a crisp noise as it slides into the earth. It is brisk, no kindness, cut off as soon as the blade halts, no lingering or wistfulness. Of all implements, this is one knows it’s function and doesn’t weep for something nicer, or more romantic. It is a businesslike end. No more.

The corpses stand to one side, watching with varying degrees of fear and resignation. Life has become increasingly tough in recent years, and it is interesting to separate those who look dully, bordering on relief that are least it will soon end, from those whose eyes are still alert, darting from tree to tree in search of an escape.
Of course, that does not preclude courage. Most will still go where they are told, obediently if not willing. That’s the trouble with the religious. They’re always waiting for God to save them.

Christa

9 April 2012

What do I know about Christa?

I remember the night we met. A house party, intellectual, very very arty, very very cool. She was standing by the window, blowing guilty puffs of smoke out into the night. Her skin was beautiful, the colour of cappuccino. She was slim and her legs extended across the rug with an untidy grace.

Chatting to her on the roof afterwards, a great big blanket of city stretching before us. She was a bit pissed by then but intelligence shone through it. She talked about her writing, her interest in religion and mental illness. She told me about her bible belt upbringing, her disapproving Catholic mother. She gave me her number and refused to kiss me. She held back.

Moving in together. Learning first hand what sparked her interest in mental illness. The rows of tablets, the whispered confessions when she felt an attack coming. And this last attack, which didn’t have an end.

Her mother, Francine, barging in one day when she was weeping in a heap on the floor and I was crouched helplessly beside her. I assumed later that Christa must have given her a key but at that moment she was a terrifying spectacle. A tornado of flesh and indignation. She pushed me aside and pulled Christa up from the floor, dragging her towards the door. I watched bemused as they went out into the corridor and if Christa hadn’t called for me at the last moment I honestly don’t think I would have ever seen her again.

And now, here I am, sitting in her mother’s house listening to her scream.