THE GRAVEROBBER.

The chilly night did not give a hint of attention to anything around it. Not the serial killer roaming the alleys searching for one more questionably psychotic murder; an act born out of a superiority complex of some sort?…perhaps just yet another bad choice. It looked not upon the silent deportation of innocent children being slaved away into abominable captivity. It sure as hell did not sigh in pity to the homeless families living under its dark starry canvas. And as it shied away from all these unimportant obscurities, it did not see the silhouette of that ever-punctual slender cemetery visitor who carried no flowers or wreaths of grief but a shovel might I say. Creeping around the bushes in-front of the town church, he became a shadow, wallowing in the misty fog that is so characteristic of cemeteries at night.

It was now a ritual that was part of him. Each morning he’d wake up and he would take a thirteen-minute bus drive to that dreadful place called work. Underappreciated, underpaid and just another hive mind making honey for that multiparous (gives birth to more than one child) queen bee. It was a cycle of endless torture and crushed dreams. He was always over-caffeinated after work and this gave him some sort of energy to visit his wife, just another overly-medicated human being striving to live on.  Newsflash people; at just the right moment, when you’ve gathered all your happiness, life huffs and puffs and tears it all down. But I digress. She had always been his muse, always had the breakfast ready, looking into his eyes as she did his tie, brushing off blanket pieces from his suit…and then came the cancer. She still had the same glow on her face but the light, the light in her eyes was gone and staring back was the death note.
She was scared, afraid to look into the mirror, to see what little was left of her and as she looked into his eyes, she wished he could see her scream within, looking for a slim chance of hope. One glorious morning she saw him walk in to her bedside grinning like a 4 year old kid who’d just discovered a mud puddle. He held a note to her, it read ‘’this too shall pass”. It was unlike any other sensation she had felt, she grew alight with inner peace and her husband took notice of it and so he continued to dig for these treasures that gave her light in her darkened world.
The fog now dramatically cleared as he came to the centre of the cemetery. It was awfully quiet and it felt like little devils were echoing nursery rhymes in a mocking little circle urging him home. He felt now a rush of courage as he took off his sweat-drenched jacket and picked up the shovel. He knelt down, clumsily uttered a prayer to his Deity and turned his head to his target. Everything from a mile around was covered in thick soil and climbing weeds but he knew she was waiting for him each day with a new treasure for her. For the tombstones carried with them a wisdom far more elusive than any stolen merchandise from the dead. Each day a tomb was raided but not of its treasure but of its lesson, each day she grew less afraid of her future. Unafraid because each day her working class husband literally stole the show.
Today’s raid was her very last show and with finesse he dug up the final tombstone and it did read;
“There shall be no darkness nor dazzling but one equal light; no noise no silence but one equal music.”
Collin Atuti.

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