Gravedigging

CRACK. The blade of your shovel strikes through the frozen soil, and hefts away the first of many piles of snow and dirt. The cold has smothered the smell of the rotting corpse beside you, thankfully. Another failed experiment, another waste of your ever-so-limited time—why, never in your centuries on this wretched planet have you glimpsed such incompetence as you had in your assistants today... CRACK. Your shovel dislodges more dirt.

A waste of good material. Healthy, well-preserved tissue. Strong musculature already, now falling apart into strands bound by acrid goo. SHNK. Your shovel dislodges more dirt. You miss better times. It always feels as if, even just yesterday, every experiment was going just fine, and now suddenly the world is against you. And each day, the world is against you anew, and each yesterday was just fine. SHNK. Your shovel dislodges more dirt. You could have been spending your time in so many better ways than this rote task, digging a shallow grave in the dead of night.

Is it sabotage? No, no. SHNK. It can't be. This was no important project, just one in an endless line of never-quite-there experiments. Another iteration among what must be thousands now. SHNK. But couldn't it be sabotage? Maybe not by your enemies, or... maybe by your enemies. To grind your will down. Perhaps the universe abhors your flaunting of mortality, and seeks to reduce you to ash as you belong. SHNK.

Maybe your skills are falling away. Maybe your will collapses already, and you're not even noticing it. Maybe you're already fading, each gust of skin-crawling winter air spiriting away vapor trails of your soul. SHNK. How does one know their own soul is withering? How does one find the strength from within to resist that decay? Where, oh where, is the limit to your balancing act? When shall nature seek to recoup the debt you've wracked up? SHNK.

You look over the edges of the pit you reside within, and see restless shadows among the treeline. You swear you see the body twitch. You snarl lowly, and duck your head back down. You're not this weak yet. You can tell reality from figments. SHNK. You will continue your work. You have better things to do than this, anyway, but burial rites are important. SHNK. Yet, even here, on this desolate road, you can't shake the feeling of being watched. By whom?

SHNK. You can't afford to slip up. Your soul is fragile, or so it would seem. Any mistake, any runaway thought, and maybe that would be enough to undo you entirely. SHNK. Each strike of your shovel grows more forceful, more determined. This paranoia will not claim you. If only you look it in its eyes, it will fall to dust. SHNK. SHNK. SHNK.

...

You stop, suddenly feeling... lucid. You look up from the gleaming edge of your shovel, having only just noticed the Architect's countenance catching on it. You peer over the sides of the pit, or... you would, were it not taller than you. Your arms ache so much... how long have you been digging? Carefully, you clamber your way out, dragging yourself up and into the snow... and looking up at the sky with wide eyes.

It is noon.

Perhaps... resisting your decay will be more difficult than you thought.