The Gravely Journal

Killing Time

Over the next few days, Healy and I tried to settle back into a domestic routine. It was tough going for both of us, aware death didn't mean much anymore and the person passing you on the street could have died weeks ago. We saw cops directing traffic and local politicians interviewed on TV. It was unnerving to think they might know about gravers but keeping it secret from the public. 

Our nerves were frayed and it showed. Healy and I drank a little too much, obviously to numb us against our new reality. There were no arguments, but hours would go by and we didn't speak. He'd nap on the sofa or lie there staring at the ceiling. I'd curl up in the fetal position in bed, trying to make sense of it all. For twentysomethings, our sex life was non-existent. He couldn't get manly and I didn't want him to. Too much worry on our minds. I half expected Healy to take off, get away from the pressure and risk of living with me, but he didn't.

Two days after the clown incident, Healy took Mitch's Harley-Davidson to a bike shop for a set of new tires. I was happy the motorcycle was being ridden, and it was a chance for me to watch the Jessop DVD I'd scooped from Crim and Domagio in the van. I popped the disc into the media player on my laptop and settled comfortably onto my sofa. If Healy returned suddenly, he'd simply think I was surfing the web. I'd never mentioned to him that I'd pocketed the North American Burial video or that I was doing my own research on gravers. Despite the warning we'd received from the graver hunters to stay out of it, I was obsessed.