Love 23 #1

	It was a nice day. The sky was clear, populated by only a scattering of gentle clouds. It had rained the night before and the air was full of the scent of earth and wildflowers. A cool wind gently blew, leaving the young man feeling comfortable in the summer heat. Birdsong tittered all around him, joyous and exuberant. It was all enough to drive Abe crazy. What an oblivious, callous, disgusting world he lived in.
	Today, Abe was burying his cousin. He'd dragged the body out there himself, unceremoniously hauled it with a rusty wheelbarrow he'd stolen from a neighbor. There certainly wasn't anyone out there willing to help him or his cursed family, what little remained of it. In four years, he'd been to twice as many burials, each more pitiful and lonely than the last. Now all that remained of the Harpers was a weak, spineless boy and his crippled mother.
	Her cries were the only thing that set the mood that day. Really, Abe was amazed his mother sill found tears to shed. Wasn't she tired of her useless sobbing, her pathetic weeping? It didn't amount to a damn in the end. But certainly these weren't the wails that had accompanied his brother's burial, or his father's. Between the two last Harpers, there was maybe an ounce of love for the soon-to-be buried dead man. Abe briefly thought that his mother might be putting on a show, but for whose benefit? Or maybe she simply felt that same sense of disgust at this uncaring world and it's cheerful facade. In spite of himself, Abe found that he was thankful for those tears.
	His shovel ripped into the ground with steady strikes, the music of his toil accentuated with his light grunts, his heavy breath, her occasional cry. More seconds passed, more earth was turned aside. If he'd had a helping hand it would have been his easiest burial yet. Perhaps he should try his hand as a gravedigger? Abe certainly was developing a talent for it, or rather well-practised skill. But would he be half as dedicated to burying other people's families as his own? There was a better question though. Who would dare let him place his filthy hands on their loved ones?
	It was such a miserable exercise, a damned waste of time for an undeserving soul, but what alternative did Abe possess? Perhaps leave the wretch to rot? No, not even the Harpers could stomach that. Then what? The family didn't have the means to afford a proper burial, not anymore. Hell, could they have managed it even with the coin? The Harpers had not been welcome in the church for some time. The consequences of their blasphemous arrival were beyond consideration. The miserable work would have to be accomplished by the forsaken son, as it had been before, but now for the first time he dug alone.
	Yes, before he'd always had the help of his steadfast patriarch, that cold, bitter man with the face made of stone. Memories of his father's death threatened at the edge of his mind and Abe did everything he could to suppress it. That was how a man should be, wasn't it? His father had never cried, no. It wasn't his way. Even when he'd buried his eldest son, the man hadn't shed a tear. Abe had cried though. His father had never said a word of it, but he could feel the judgment pouring from his iron grimace. Abe promised himself he'd never cry again. His father's death had made him a liar.
	Shame washed over him. His cheeks flushed at the loathsome thought. Damnable memories that could never be banished, they always seemed to haunt him at his most vulnerable. The dirt and clay before him passed a bit faster, his breathing came more harshly, the spade flew, stabbing into the earth with all of the frenzy of an armed maniac at a drunkard's back. That drunkard fell with a fool's gape, eye's wide, drowning in a pool of his own blood, just one more dead Harper for the heap. What had his last words been, the last thoughts of a druken lout? Abe's eyes, wild with emotion, darted to the pilfered wheelbarrow and it's gruesome contents, shielded from the world by a burlap shawl. How was it that he could not smell the stink of blood? There had been so much. Blessed be the calloused world and the sweet scent of blooming wildflowers, though that thought was nothing but a bitter one. He certainly had no love for any of the goodness in this place.
	Sweat poured off of him as Abe worked. Unwanted remembrances continued to creep at the edge of his consciousness. Abe desperately looked for something else to occupy his thoughts, anything but that cold, lifeless stare from the latest in the line of Harper dead, mixing and melding with all of the others into a hideous chimera of guilt and misery. "Oh, what luck!" he cried, sardonic spite flooding his every twisted word. "That my cousin would be buried on such a lovely day!" His face contorted into a cruel, bitter smile. "Don't you think, mother?" Her only answer was a louder moan, perhaps a word of complaint. Abe was immune to it.
	"And you, cousin, what do you think? Does it bring you joy to know the warmth of the world, one last time? Before your final rest, open your ears to the splendor and beauty of nature!" Abe grit his teeth, pounding at the earth with ferocious intent. "Yet I don't think you're quite happy at all, are you?" He spat out a false laugh. "No, not with all those holes in you, I should think not! Really, you couldn't pay me to count them all! What a gruesome mess you've become, oh cousin of mine! To think, you survived conscription just to die by the blade anyway! You know, father always said I could learn a thing or two from you." The ghostly echoes of his parent chased him, leading him to rant and rave just a bit louder, his voice and tone growing to an ugly, offensive bark. "What might I learn I wonder? How to squander my time and earnings on the devil's drink? How to eke through life as a pitiful beggar? Perhaps how to die a dog's death?"
	"Enough, Abraham!" his Mother shrieked, her voice distorted by her sorrows.
	But it wasn't enough. Abe turned his attention to the new target of his cruelty. "No, no, no, dearest Mother, that won't do at all! Indeed, I think my work has only just begun! Imagine, if you would, the next Harper to fall could very well be myself, and then who would be left to rid the earth of my odious bones? You?” He scoffed. “I should simply dig myself a nice shallow grave now, just in case. While I'm at it, I'll dig one for you as well." Once more, that wicked laughter escaped him. "Please," Abe said with dramatic flourish, "no thanks are necessary. In fact, why don't the two of us just lay down and die now, put the whole sordid affair behind us and let the world move recover from the injuries dealt by our traitorous heritage!"
	His mother regarded Abe with eyes veiled by tears, yet her face was twisted into a furious visage. "What is the matter with you!" She shouted, her tone warbling crazily from her throat. "Have you gone mad? Who is this devil that walks in the flesh of my son?"
	Yet Abe all too easily ignored her. He tossed the shovel to the side and frantically scanned the field. His eyes settled on a promising target and he raced to obtain his prize. Abe lifted a hefty stone slab, just twice larger than his fist, with a manic, victorious grin. "Perfect, isn't it?" he exclaimed in mock joy as he returned to his mother's side. "Let us claim our epitaph, together! 'Here lie the Harpers, last of their name. So ends three generations of betrayal, and blessings upon the lord for ridding us of their wickedness forever! Praise be unto God, and let them rot in the bowels of hell for all eternity!"
	His booming voice swept across the field, followed swiftly by a sharp crack. Abe's face whipped to the side. His macabre prize felt heavy in his hands, yet he retained his hold all the same. Abe's face stung, but he imagined that that small pain was all that he felt. Yes, he felt nothing at all, save the barest inkling of an emotion. The old woman had surprised him. He regarded his broken mother. Her face was composed of a most delicate recipe: a hint of contempt, a dash of pity, and a heaping helping of misery. Serve cold to two.
	But the last son had no hunger for this. His twisted palette could only appreciate the taste of bitterness now. "Mother," he said, his voice now just barely a whisper. "You know," he went on, dreamily, slowly taking his time, appreciating the subtle movements of her aged brow, her quivering lips, her trembling eyes. "I think this spot," and he pointed, "right here." His finger settled on the stone. "That's where I'll place your name." She regarded him with a dull look, void of comprehension. Abe explained. "Your tombstone, I mean." She reached out to grasp at his chest, yet he continued. "More like grave marker, of course, but you understand."
	"Let it go, Abraham," she demanded, an icy chill overwhelming her hysteria. Abe couldn't decide if she was talking about the conversation or the stone. He decided he didn't care either way. He smiled in willful defiance, a nasty, monstrous grin fit for the ghoul she saw him as. "You're not well. You're sick," she spat out, and Abe instantly saw the regret on her face. But she continued. "This isn't who you are." The look of honest concern on her face was one thing, but it was her pity that he could not abide. "Put it down."
	Perhaps she thought he meant to strike her? Maybe he did. He hadn't really considered the matter. The thought now danced at the edge of his mind for a tantalizing second. If they were to be buried here, certainly it would be best if the end came quickly. Who better to supply that end than he? But then who would wish that same kindness upon him? Well, he'd certainly moved past the point of deserving kindness, hadn't he, fiend that he was. In the end, Abe decided that he simply couldn't decide. But he'd consider the matter a moment longer. "No," was his simple, devil-may-care response.
	"Stop it," his mother hissed, leaning into him. The pain in her leg must have been terrible, yet she continued all the same.
	"No," Abe returned, his voice deep and low.
	"Abraham, you stop it! You stop it this instant!" She began to shake him, or at least make the best effort as such that her withered limbs could muster. Her lips waned into tiny, pursed slits, her eyes wide and full of fright.
	In answer, he draped an arm around her, his free hand taking firm grasp of her shoulder as his other thrust out in theatrical fashion. "Look now, Mother! Do you see it?" He put just the slightest pressure in his grasp and turned her to look to the sky towards his outstretched hand. "Our full line of ancestry, just waiting to embrace us! Oh, but wait," Abe said, thoughtful, before dropping his hand towards the ground, pointing his slab to some far and distant place below. "Yes, there, now do you see them? They're calling to us, Mother."
	"No!" she shrieked, now her turn to defy him. She made an effort to wrench herself loose from his grasp, but the effort was wasted. The fruits of her labor were only to further provoke his rampaging emotions.
	Abe turned with her motion, supporting her back and lifting her just slightly off the ground. "My, what a wonderful idea, oh Mother of mine! Yes, a dance, an homage to my Father, and his Father, and all the rest below! To their masters and ours, a dance of the dead!" And he laughed, he laughed, there was so much hollow, empty laughter. Surely he had lost his mind and he was so happy to be rid of it. What good had that twisted mind of his ever wrought?
	There was just the slightest resistance from the woman, but Abe ignored it. "To Eric Harper, firstborn traitor, he who paved this road of sin over the lives of our countrymen! Three generations of success, wealth and infamy, built of the bones of a once-nation's fathers and husbands, it's brothers and sons. We salute you, oh father of faithlessness, you patriarch of perjury, honored hero of hubris!"
	Now Abe truly was deaf to the world. All that he knew was that swirling maelstrom of madness that dared to overtake his every thought. He mustn't think, mustn't remember, mustn't mustn't mustn't there was no beginning or end but his words could not stop! "To Derek!"
	"No!"
	A sound, perhaps, but he must have imagined it. "To Derek Harper! Mine father, mine own flesh and blood, of him I am all that I am and no more! To the quintessential boot lick! The faithful dog of the foreign devil! To dearest Father, I grant you all that you have earned in this world, every worthless penny, every undying sin, I recognize it all and applaud you! If only I could dare to reach such dazzling heights of despicable loathsomeness! But I promise, oh do I promise, I shall always endeavor to be my Father's son!"
	Suddenly, he was falling. For a moment, Abe imagined that the wicked claws of some subterranean devil had finally reached out to drag him down to some gruesome future of endless torment. The thought was not met with fear, but rather a certain degree of acceptance and expectation. 'Oh, there it is.' But such was not to be. The actual cause of his fall was something else. Perhaps a shove from his mother threw him off balance. Perhaps there had been an errant rock, stone or elsewise thing underneath his feet. Perhaps his mad ranting had left him bereft of his senses, leaving only a soulless doll, suddenly clipped of it's puppeteer's guiding strings. All the same, he fell.
	Abe collided with something solid, heavy, but not solid or heavy enough to stop his fall. He rolled through that field of wildflowers, dandelion pufts exploding around him, sticking and settling where they pleased. A particularly fibrous piece of something stabbed unpleasantly into his back. Abe recoiled with a hiss.
	He was not alone. Just beside him lay another body, calmly regarding the world, and Abe, with the most awful, pained expression. Abe's eyes locked with Theo's, dear Theo. His carefree smile had turned into a most hideous thing, partially hidden behind a burlap veil. No longer did Abe see the face of the merry maker, the joker, the warrior, all were gone and lost to the ages. Abe saw no one, nothing, only meat.
	That meat was his cousin, or what remained of him. The toppled wheelbarrow listed to the side, it's contents regurgitated in a deranged jumble of cloth and flesh, blood and bone. A singular bloodshot eye, pupil huge, black and bottomless, stared through Abe into some hidden corner of himself he dared not acknowledge, horrible in it's unrelenting intensity, daring a curse upon his very soul. In spite of his earlier bluster, Abe couldn't help but feel a deep and primal fear.
	“No!” was his response, intended as a shout but in truth just a whimper. The young man scrambled back, reduced to a boy fleeing from imagined movement in the dark. That look, Abe had seen it before, and once more he was violently accosted by a memory that could never be forgotten.
	“I've seen things, y'know,” Theo's ghost whispered through the membrane of life and death. “There are things a man shouldn't see, Abe. You wouldn't understand. How could you?”
	Abe was drowning in his dead cousin's eyes, the words 'how could you?' echoing horribly and taking on new and terrible meaning. No longer could he stand the endless gaze of the meat, his un-kin, violently unmade by the countless and vengeful enemies of the Harpers. And yet he could not look away.
	“I've seen thing, y'know.” And for an instant, Abe too thought that perhaps he saw things in those eyes, that black, all-encompassing void. Something stirred, slightly, ever so slightly, like the trembling of some huge body of water, and Abe shuddered to think what unseen horror might lie underneath the murky surface of his cousin's eyes.
	No, but of course that was impossible. Surely it was some imagined thing, some mad conjuring of his wicked psyche. Yet the more he considered it, the more pressing and undeniable the notion seemed. The eye was growing larger, dominating his view, his thoughts, his very soul, the eye crept closer and closer to him, growing and growing, impossibly so. Yes, impossible, surely, for certain, yet it grew all the same. Abe realized with sudden fright that his body was moving of its own accord, drawing him closer and closer to the cadaver. Theo was his name, once a man, now meat, his eyes shake and stir, bearing the answer you seek.
	Abe wasn't breathing. To do so was impossible. To look away was to invite some terrible reckoning upon him, and for all his bluster and blaspheming he was well and truly afraid. Now he was close, so very close, just inches away from that seductive orb. The stench of the newly made corpse was unmistakable now, the outside world forgotten in the wake of this calamitous reality. There was that simmer, that rippling in the black. Abe could see something, some object, difficult to make out, yet the closer he drew the clearer it became. The last Harper recognized it with sudden clarity and absolute surety, knowing at once that it was something intimately familiar and simultaneously completely alien, something he had never seen yet had always known.
	It was The Door.
	There was great laughter, and shrieking and yelling then, vibrant explosions of color and sound, a cacophonous barrage of sensation overshadowed by a light so blinding in it's intensity as to mask all else. And then there was nothing, a merciful oblivion, with endless horizons and insatiable hunger, an oblivion that finally silenced Abe's torturous self-destruction.