Air in my lungs, Rotting my lungs

“What do you want, Gravedigger.”

“What do you mean?” He says slowly. “Rosten’s dead. You just said that--”

Makes sense, he supposes. Makes more sense than anything that actually--

“She’s still alive, isn’t she.” And then, quieter, like he’s still not quite sure if it’s real or not, “She shot me.”

As he snarls, his edges sharpen. Anger’s good, anger’s tangible.

“I’m dead. Alice-- how long’ve I--”

“Oh, we don’t do a lot of things, anymore. Did you know we stopped branding people around the turn of the century? How’s your back, Gravedigger? It heal up alright?”

“Why would she come back to--”

“-- Held the rope tight til her face turned blue, but the ritual wouldn’t take. Paul said to keep going, she was dying, wasn’t working, but we kept-- why’d she come back? Why the fuck would she come back after--”

No, no that wasn’t right, was it? The skin over Dale’s forehead warps and flickers, the smell of flowers creeps into the air.

“Why? He’s dead now, why’s it matter?”

“Not exactly the most-- touchy feely sort of guy.”

“She wouldn’t-- wouldn’t stop crying, when they brought her in. I remember, just-- this little girl, too little to even be real, and they stuck her with me because we were the same age, and she wouldn’t stop crying...”

“Gravedigger was never supposed to last. Came out here with his soft hands and his fancy education, acting like he was better than us-- like he understood everything so much better than us. Shoulda-- shoulda seen his face the first time someone handed him a shovel and told him to start digging. You’d think someone just told him to shoot his own willie off. We had to-- had to move the first few bodies he buried, couldn’t even dig a hole right. First serious storm to roll in washed most of the dirt away. How the-- how the hell did someone like that last so long..?”