Through the walls Carlos heard yet another scathing scrape from the shovelling outside. The agonizing rhythmic digging had woken him hours ago. The windows were wide to a hot, humid night, exposed to endless acres of evergreens, and cedars. He lay shuddered and shivered under thin, sweaty bed sheets, their excesses wrapped around his head like a shroud. Outside the shovel fell like a hammer without mercy, echoing the barbaric excavation through the decrepit and peeling house. While the sprawling woods may have deaden the noise to neighbours, the hollow home did nothing but amplify it.
Hours of clenching at the blankets ached his knuckles. Within, Carlos's Will screamed itself raw. Begging for his aid, for his escape. Both knew without knowing that they were powerless to stop the shovelling from beyond their door. Too weak in spirit to fight, too dull in mind to reason. His stomach fell with each scrape, grimacing as steel cracked soil and stone. Carlos drew himself into a fetal ball reacting to new sounds of dull blunting as the side of the shovel hacked at unruly roots like an axe.
The soft silting of soil piling like an hourglass was a maddening equal to the dig. By now the height of the pyramidical mound mirrored the pit at its feet. In the beats of each shovelful's lift and toss Carlos drowned in plaguing memory. He relived his outbursts, his sins, his reluctance to open his eyes to the world around and his personal contributions to the misery of others. The shovel's unearthing outside knocked to his core, and doorways opened within Carlos that allowed him to see and feel the hurt he'd inflicted. Under the blankets he flailed, his mind howling, pleading prayers, imploring for a chance of atonement to any cosmic voice that might hear his woe.
Only the measured pulsating beat of the shovelling answered, berating his psyche like a war drum. Carlos' heartbeat slowed until the two synchronized. The sheet slipped as he rose in a trance. The worn wood floors were cold and smooth under his feet. Decades of familial traffic had given the building's bones an arthritic ache. They screeched and moaned under the weight of each step, accompanying the horrific orchestra outside. His hand held the banister as he stumbled down the bowed stairs. The open front door banged in its frame from the breeze, beckoning him to the threshold.
Down, down, down, like a moth to a flame, Carlos was pulled towards a set of smoking lanterns hung above the hole. A great shadow rolled and rippled through the forest. Emitting from the abyss a great darkness that fought the golden halos of light above. Silhouetted from the earth below stood a foul figure.
Carlos choked on more memories, retching on the unkind things he'd said to both strangers, and those he cherished. The lack of patience, the frustrations expressed on innocents, the ego, the entitlement, the shortcuts, scams, and schemes. All selfish. All true. Again, he felt his actions through the pain of others. He coughed and gagged, sobbing in shame, mucus and tears pouring in desperation to release the vileness his heart had been carrying.
His footsteps sank as the earth grew softer. Inches of scattered soil claimed his bare feet, scrambling to pull him under. As he neared the painful puncture the figure became more defined. It paused and turned from the darkness, and Carlos saw the familiar face. He saw himself. Contorted, twisted, ancient, and young, he felt his own judgement, scorn, and malice pour over him. Fear sent him stumbling backwards till his heels tumbled over a haphazard box. He used the object to stand himself upright, the rough wood splintering into his palms. A slapped together coffin, with no form, no craftsmanship, no right angles. The lid, if you could call it that, lay discarded to the side. No effort had been made to match its size to the box. Long nails would suffice, the toil, or lack thereof, deserved.
From his knees the two locked eyes again, the figure, half man, half darkness began to evaporate, morphing to a hazy polluted liquid of spiralling smoke. Yet through the abstraction he could still see nothing but himself, and the mirror pulled him crawling closer.
Until he fell.
Cushioned by the damp, sponging Earth. Both cold and warm. Every ounce of strength was summoned to stand, and he rose despite the weight of the spectre's judgement. Carlos' fingers clawed at the dirt walls as he clambered to climb from the depths. Each hold destined to crumble. Each pocket of soil poured another layer over his feet. Self control had as much influence six feet underground as it had above, and the walls continued to collapse. The harder he tried to escape the faster Carlos buried himself. The taste of dirt came fast. The silence came slower. First the slow of the soil. Then the slowing of heartbeats. It was only in the quiet Carlos understood he'd been doing his own digging the entire time.
Thanks for reading the prelude to a short series titled: Night Mirrors, rolling us through October, part 1 arriving next week!
Stay Tuned,
-Mr. Write