Closure

4

Even in the pitch dark, Clara knew which grave belonged to her husband. She stood before his newly cut headstone and stared at the dirt beneath her feet, still wearing her finest dress with the pair of scissors tucked into her underwear. It hadn't rained since his burial, so the earth was dry and loose. With a firm grip on the shovel's handle and a wild look in her eye, she thrusted the spade's tip into the dirt. Heap after heap, she dug. Her mind remained blank, perhaps intentionally. Not once did she allow herself to consider her actions. Her furious determination clouded her mind so severely that she practically fell into a trance.

With each thrust of her shovel, Clara descended deeper into the earth. Panting and covered in muddy sweat, she sank until the cemetery's lawn was above her head. She swung her shovel wildly like a catapult, flinging heaps of dirt overhead and out of the hole.

Thunk.

Clara froze in place. Once again, she rammed her shovel into the dirt beneath her feet.

Thunk.

Relief and giddiness washed over her. She used the edge of the spade to scrape away the final inch of dirt until she could see the pale moonlight reflecting off a polished surface at her feet.

She tossed the shovel out of the hole. Awkwardly, Clara dug the sides of her feet into the grave's walls and stooped down to feel for the coffin lid's edge. Her fingertips hooked beneath a small lip in the wood, and then her heart shuddered. The feeling that swept through her was foreign and indistinct. She felt thrilled to have found the coffin after working so tirelessly to uncover it. She felt glad to see Robert's face again, but also fearful that he would no longer look like himself after having been buried for several days. But worst of all, she felt shame for disturbing him. But Clara was determined to speak with Robert again, and she was sure he wouldn't mind. After all, he loved her when he was alive. Surely, he still loved her in death.

She heaved open the coffin's lid. It was dark, but the moon offered just enough light for Clara to see her husband's pale, bloated face. She froze, horrified as Robert's half-open eyes stared lazily up at her. His mouth hung unhinged, looking as though a moan of agony were soon to slip out,

Clara, why couldn't you have joined me in here?

His swollen cheeks were inflated like slimy balloons made of rotten meat. Worst of all was the stench, sour and foul. Clara gagged, nearly vomiting into the coffin. But she swallowed her sickness and scrambled to retrieve her scissors.

Though she only needed to stoop downward a couple feet to reach Robert's head, it felt like descending a mile-high cliff. Drawing closer, each inch felt like a dreadful eternity as the grotesque face of Clara's once-handsome husband came into clearer view. The glare of his rotting eyes burrowed sickeningly into hers.

As she was face to face with her husband, tears began to slip out of her eyelids. Perhaps she had a few tears of sorrow and longing left over after all. Or maybe regret. Mostly, they were tears of farewell. Yes, Clara would soon have the means to speak with Robert again, but as she stared into his rotting face, her dire reality was affirmed; Robert would never really be back.

With a whimper, she raised the scissors to the crown of the corpse's head. The blades made a smooth, shearing sound as she closed them around the wad of wet, slimy hair.

Schhhnnk.

For a long moment, Clara sat squatting over Robert, gazing with mortified admiration at the prize clutched within her curled fingers. She whispered, "Thank you, darling," and stuffed the bundle of hair into the waistband of her underwear along with the scissors.

Regaining her awkward pigeon-toed footing on the grave's edge, she slammed the coffin's lid shut. Clara stood there for a long moment on top of her husband's coffin, feeling the wad of bristly hairs scratch against the skin of her hip when a wave of horror crashed over her, followed by a wave of shame. She collapsed to her knees and wept, muttering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Robert."