By Lilian St. Clair-Foster, TIWP Student

I walk.
My high heeled boots black in color, perfectly describing my current mood as I sway with each step towards the graveyard. My long tan trench coat is dirty and rough against my skin as I cough, my lungs ringing like a sponge as they try to reject the air I’m forcing in with each jagged breath. My long dark hair damp from the rain and my mascara running down my face as it’s chased by my tears.
Why?
I look around me at the life that surrounds the graveyard and I wonder why it couldn’t have been any of them.
Why does their life mean so much more than my wife’s?
Oh god, my wife…..
I choke down a scream.
I’m angry.
Angry at the thin and frail trees that surround my wife’s resting place.
Angry at the happy couples I passed on the drive here.
Angry at life, and at any god that controls it.
And as I stand on the freshly placed dirt turned mud of the burial site, I reminisce.
I think about her long pale hair, and her perfectly crooked smile, her soft skin and the freckles and scars that caressed her body…
And I think of the hospital room….
Her belly round and her face scrunched in pain from the baby that was meant to be ours…
I remember being pushed out of the room by doctors…
Hearing her frantic yelling….
And the worst of it all I remember seeing them wheel my wife and soon to be daughter out. Neither one of them is breathing.
And as I fall to my knees in the mud of my life’s final destination, I let out a blood curdling scream.
My hands claw at my neck and face, leaving deep red marks in their wake before they start to dig open the ground.
Mud splashes up onto me covering my now broken heeled boots as I dig faster. By now the muds up to my neck… and by the time my heads fully submerged I’m no longer breathing… my earth covered body laying over my loves grave as my long since dead hands grip the sides of it with possessiveness.