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Of Grave Importance

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Day Four - Evening

While on most nights the moon in this alien landscape seems to be impartial with its graces, it seemed that tonight it took exception, and bestowed undivided luminescence upon the glade in which I currently worked. I could have almost believed it to have been the omniscient eye of some god, withdrawing his gaze from his limitless dominion to focus solely on me. I imagined I could feel his focused, vitriolic stare penetrating a night sky filled with constellations foreign to my knowledge, to watch in revulsion at the act of sacrilege I was in the midst of perpetrating. An entertaining notion, however I myself have never subscribed to any religious doctrine, although I am acutely aware that regardless of fanciful religious notions, this act I perform is considered a most heinous breach of etiquette even on an everyday level. In a way however, I believe I'm entitled. After all, is it a sin to exhume ones own grave?

I could only imagine how the scene would appear to a would-be observer - this strange, gaunt man, clothed in rags, his unshaven face set in a grim rictus of fevered concentration as he hastily thrust his makeshift spade repeatedly into the earth. Surely it was a sight to disturb any onlooker, this mockery of a man defiling the most sacred of grounds with a vigor that could only speak of an unknowable madness. These tattered rags were once the finest clothes I owned, however their condition now evoked no sentiment in me. I was beyond emotions now, I had almost wholly become a creature of instinct, of insatiable hunger and curiosity. No sound graced the night save for the rhythmical thump of the rudimentary spade biting deep into the earth, ensued by the staccato patter of the displaced dirt as it cascaded down the already overflowing refuse piles above. Eventually I hit upon a substance harder than the earth, and upon clearing one last thin layer of soil, I beheld an oblong wooden box, the smell of fresh pine it exuded giving testament to it's relatively recent construction. The box was devoid of ornamentation, or so I thought until I drew my torch down into the grave for a closer inspection. Grim forebodings stirred within me when I noticed that there was a word near the top of the box. Icy talons of dread gripped my heart when I realised the word which was carved into the pine box, in a rather neat copperplate hand, was in fact a name - 'Wilson'. My name. This box was my coffin.

What's in the box? :o


Edited by Gizmotron
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