This is the place on which, years ago, I fell. It is the place where my corpse was covered with cold, dry, dirt and left to decompose. I, however, am not entirely gone. I know this because I can hear the sounds that occasionally pierce the muffled silence above my grave: the icy clang of a shovel against hard rock, the shy crackle of a footstep pressing lifeless grass, and the dismal cries of those who have come to mourn. These sounds do not come often, so most of the time, I brood in silence. Not many inhabitants of the living world care to be as dismal as I, so they avoid the place where sorry corpses dwell. When I was alive, they told me I would go to heaven. They, however did not know of my atrocities. As …show more content…
One steps softly and evenly, and the other pair dances and darts lightly, here and there across the solemn ground. The sound of laughter rings clearly through the air and penetrates the soil covering my grave. After so many years of remaining fixed under the earth, some essence of my being begins to stir. Lightly at first, and then dramatically, I feel a floating sensation. My vision, which for years has seen nothing but the dark pressure of dirt, rises and breaks through the earth to view a gray sky. I am floating. I am seeing, though not with my eyes. Those have long since decayed. A breeze brushes the tips of the weeds and carries my consciousness along with it. There is a woman below, and a child. I can see a glint of red on her chest, and I instantly realize that it is a depiction of her secret. It is a secret that escaped. Why does she wear it, I wonder. Why does she hold it out for all the world to see? Why doesn't she take it off and cast it …show more content…
From my elevation, I can barely discern the words. “...he cannot catch little Pearl!” Taking the woman by the hand, she bounds gleefully down the path. The breeze quickens, and my long stagnant soul is buffeted along helplessly. The little girl lets go of her mother's hand and runs to a small grove of trees. There, she stomps rambunctiously in the leaves. Very suddenly, the wind spirals downward, and I plummet to the ground among the leaves. The child freezes and turns to face my ghost with a peculiar expression. It is almost as if she knows I exist. A deep voice rumbles from behind me. “Art thou little Pearl?” It says. It occurs to me that the child is staring through my being and onto something else. I have no control over my movements, so I cannot turn to look at whatever is behind me. The child assumes a petulant and mischievous air as she stomps a foot on the ground. “I shall not tell thee unless I know who thou art.” The voice chuckles with malice, and I can feel a slight puff of air that propels my ghostly form forward. “I think thou knowest who I am.” “Why art thou here?” inquires the