Red Sky Mourning

Little more than halfway done when the first of them arrives. My head’s still above ground when the headlights mow through the grass and flit between the headstones. They probably don’t see me yet. They will. Toss the shovel out of the hole and place the bottle of Jack, a little more than halfway done, beside it. It was her favorite. Fingertips press into the soft soil as I pull myself out of her grave, pick up the bottle, and pull the 1911 from my back waistband.

In short time, two more roll up. The lifted pick-up assaults me with the floodlights. I squint against the halogen white. Hard to tell if it’s the drizzle or the sweat that’s muddying the gravedirt against my chest; I must look a revenant. Some abomination of inconceivable mind, teetering.

Their doors clack open; I click the safety off.

They are shadows and silhouettes, but they are known to me. The dark can’t cover everything. Not even death can. They file out and array themselves like a firing squad. Good little soldiers, just obeying orders.

“Don’t suppose you’re here to help.”

A rifle cocks in response. Tall, broad-shouldered figure bearing it. Dale. Older brother. He’s either a step closer than the rest or he’s somehow grown even bigger since this morning. Regardless, an easy target.

“Boy,” says the father; his voice booming, righteously indignant, “just what the hell you think you’re doing?” Undercurrent of anger, a family flaw.

“Exactly what it looks like.”

The hole yawning black behind me, flower arrangements still aligned around the headstone. ‘Beloved Daughter.’ There’s only about two feet of freshly tilled dirt and a coffin lid between us now. We could watch the sunrise like we used to, after a night of bad behavior, and then sleep the day away. ‘Cept she’s never waking up.

I know it’s not rain or sweat in my eyes. I feel something in my throat trying to force its way up, trying to force its way out.

“You didn’t let me say goodbye!” It escapes in a shrill and tremulous cry. I sniff in hard, but the words aren’t coming back. A lot of things aren’t coming back.

“Now, son,” a third voice, older. Squat and round body to my right. The uncle. Sheriff. No lights on his car. Not official business. He wasn’t never here. “I understand you’re upset, but we don’t want this to go any further, do we? This is obviously hard on all of us, and we don’t want to see anyone else hurt. Why don’t you put the gun down, I’ll give you a ride, you can sleep it off, and we can talk about this in the morning. How does that sound?”

I mean it as a warning shot, but my arms are tired. I pull the trigger before the barrel reaches the sky, blasting out one of the pick-up’s floodlights in a cascade of shattered bits. At least it’s not so bright. The rain’s even let up some.

They’re cursing and threatening, guns up and calling me a sonuvabitch. It’s all just noise. I can see beyond them, the night’s giving way on the horizon. There’s not enough time. There’s never enough time.

“Couldn’t just let me see her,” they probably don’t even hear me. Even if they could, they wouldn’t listen. There’s no sound except the low growl of their engines, and the gentle rattle of the 1911 against my leg. “Wouldn’t even let me say goodbye.” They had their minds made up before they came here. Hell, they had their minds made up long before that. Long before she was gone.

I guess I did, too.

“All I want is to say goodbye.”

“Ain’t gonna let you desecrate her grave, boy.”

“Not desecrating nothing,” I look at bruised purple of the horizon, then back at the open hole in the earth, “Just keeping a promise.”

Said I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. You’re the one that left, but I still aim to keep that promise.

“Just wanna see her. Just wanna say goodbye. That’s all. You don’t need to do anything. You can just drive away, come back tomorrow, and it’ll be like I was never here.” An uneasy silence. “Please.”

“Can’t do that, son.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t. Won’t. Don’t make a difference,” Sheriff’s voice is level-calm like ordering a coffee.

“No,” the weight in each of my hands tugging at me, “I guess it don’t.”

I feel that thing in my throat again, and I pull up the Jack to force it back down. I don’t hear the shot; hell, I barely feel the bullet. Just impact and then falling, and then the ground waiting to greet me. The wind knocked out of my lungs, the bottle of Jack emptying into the gravedirt. Me emptying into it, too.

I can make out the edge of the grave four feet above my head, cut across the rising dusk. The rain’s stopped. The sky’s lightening, but I can’t see the sun. Senses seeping back into me. Pain, mostly. Just a broken body in hurt.

There are footsteps and shouting as they close in. I think it was Dale that got me. Smug bastard. They get close and I fire. The bullet doesn’t even leave the hole, striking the side and sending a drift of dirt down across my legs. The ringing is deafening. One less sense to worry about. Didn’t want to hit them anyways; just wanted some privacy.

The rain’s stopped. The sky’s lightening, but I bet the sun is red. Your favorite.

I put the barrel to my temple, the ground under my arm supporting me. What’s left of you, supporting me.

“Goodbye.”