Buried- A Short story
Really this is just the first part. I just wanted to post it because I haven't shown any of my writing to any one in years. I have to break this phobic habit so blast it, complement it, offer constructive criticism. I don't care just tell me what you think.
“That's an odd fellow,” is what most people would say about Marvin. He was indeed an odd fellow is any thing could be accurately said about the man. Marvin lived in a town called Bovine. Bovine contained no more than 2500 people. Bovine was a good place for Marvin to make a living. By trade Marvin was an undertaker/funeral director. Since Bovine was primarily a retirement community, Marvin was one of the wealthiest people in town by the age of twenty-five. On the rare occasion that someone would ask why he choose this profession, he'd reply plainly “Dead people aren't fond of conversation.” This was perhaps why Marvin lived and worked alone, had no friends to speak of and was still a virgin thirty-two years of age.
However, being as eremitic as he was, none of this ever bothered Marvin. Marvin's belief was that other entities only served to needlessly complicate things or were simply too stupid. His feeling on the matter was rather deep seeded.
During the time of his childhood the congregations of his family were entirely devoid of conversation or discussion of any kind. Even the necessary conversations of things like the “birds and bees” were lacking in real substance. The exact words from his father were, “The appendages between your legs are called a penis and testicles. A woman has a cavity called a vagina. Your penis works by filling up with blood and stiffening up. Sex itself is simply putting the penis in the vagina, to and fro, until you ejaculate. Should you choose to reproduce, it is imperative but easy to ejaculate into the vaginal cavity. However, you may have certain genetic obstacles to over come such as a naturally low sperm count, like me, or like your mother, your libido will simply disappear. Do you have any questions Marvin?” Marvin was twenty when the conversation took place.
Whether Marvin was a byproduct of his upbringing or simply socially inept didn't matter. Marvin always hold trouble connecting to those around him. At the risk of sounding arrogant to himself (there was literally no one else for him to sound arrogant to), he always thought it was because he was smarter than most everyone in town. This was an umbrella condition for his entire life. As a child and through adolescence, whenever Marvin was given a chance to speak, the remark would be met with curious stares or “What?” Around the time he'd graduated high school he'd come to the conclusion no one was listening, so he rarely ever spoke unless spoken to.
This disdain for communication was compounded several times weekly by a man named Ralph Waterford. Because Marvin lived and worked alone he interacted with Waterford more consistently than any one in town. Whenever Waterford brought in a body or bodies he would have some aberrant remark or joke or story. Marvin never thought enough of this banter to even reply. Marvin believed this disgorging of human misery by Waterford was an outlet that he had the misfortune of standing near. Even with this in mind, Marvin still hated Ralph.
Marvin knew the rude, surfeiting bag of human detritus would die in a pool of his own urine and fecal matter, gluing him to his Lay-Z-Boy; his heart seized by his body's inability to get blood all the way through his yellow caked veins to his brain and heart. Even then Marvin would have to haul the two hundred and ninety pound carcass onto the slab, remove his organs, replace his blood with chemicals, have to listen to whatever friendly words people could muster (if there were any), and bury him. The fat bastard would still win in the end.
On the morning of July twentieth at 11:23 am, Waterford called and said he'd be bringing in the two bodies. Marvin had been at the funeral home since 8:31. There was the mild spark of discernment about having to deal with Waterford this early but it quickly passed. Marvin had just finished preping the operating room when he heard the hiss of the back door being slung open. Unmistakably Ralph Waterford by the knocking of the metal gurney against the door. “Hey Marvin buddy how ya doin'? Gotcha these dumbfuck teenagers here. Wait till I tell ya bout how we found 'em. You ga laugh ya ass off.” Ralph departed for the second corpse. 'Goddammit.' Marvin thought to himself.
Marvin unzipped the body bag. The body laying there was a male around the age of sixteen or seventeen. The kid's name was Mark Emry. His dad, Ted, is the principal of the elementary school. The immediate cause of death seemed to be his very obvious head injury. Around the wound, his hair was stuck together with blood. The wound itself was a skull fracture As Marvin looked down further he noticed a large amount of blood on the front of the kid's pants.
The door to the Operating Room (Marvin could never get over calling this an Operating Room; you “operate” on live people, doctors do that and Marvin definitely was not a doctor) swung open.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” was what a deep voice, almost gaudy in its southern accent, said behind Marvin. The voice was that of Sheriff Tilly. “I knowed this boy since he was bout knee-high toa duck.”
Marvin watched him as he took in the scene. The Sheriff was honestly a decent man compared to the last one. Sheriff Dunwoody was arrested for the manufacture of methamphetamine and the one before, Sheriff Blackwood, that was arrested after being caught by the television show 20/20 for trying to meet a thirteen year old girl via the internet. Just from looking at him study the bodies, Marvin could see real hurt in his eyes. Marvin felt a fleeting sense of sympathy for him. He remembered the inconsolable look of pain in Ted's eyes as they contended the details of his son's burial the day before. His wife, Mary, was not present for the meeting. Marvin assumed she'd started drinking again and probably hadn't got out of bed. There was at least one corpse already in the grave yard that Mary and her bottle had been directly responsible for.
“Look Marvin, we ain't always been real...friendly, with each other. Jus' do these folks right ya hear. They're good people and this ain't gonna be no easy ride for 'em.”
“I'll do what I can Sheriff.” Marvin was partially disgusted by the remark. Marvin had always thought it somewhat morbid that one can profit from death. However, this never really bothered him ethically enough to disband his business and find another profession; he was profiting not profiteering. Tilly eyeballed Marvin as if trying to see how anyone could be this indifferent about a death that mattered so much to him.
“Ralph,” he said walking out the door. “Sheriff,” Ralph replied. It was obvious that Sheriff Tilly and Mr. Emry had been friends by the fact he didn't even say anything about who was in the second body bag. The “friendliness” between them that the Sheriff spoke of , had to do with Marvin's father. Sheriff Tilly had a long standing distaste of Marvin's family in general it seemed.
During the late forties Marvin's father started a construction company which built two of the schools, a hospital, and half of the businesses' buildings in town. He built these structures at an almost criminally inflated rate. Most of these structures were built with asbestos for fireproofing, insulation and a myriad of other uses. He even did this as the health effects of asbestos became better known through the decades. This was how Marvin's father got rich.
The only thing that saved him from a plethora of law suits was the disbandment of his company and his death two years later. He used to say he never got sued because no lawyers were advertising on TV. By the time Marvin's father died, Marvin had already set up his funeral home with the help of his father. Sheriff Tilly, being the decent man that he was, believed that with so many dying of mesothelioma and Marvin becoming the only affordable mortician in the area was “the ongoing rape of this town by a clan of sadists.”
It wasn't long before Ralph felt comfortable enough to be himself again. “Anyway,” he said picking up right where he left off. “They was three of 'em in the car. That little wiry bastard, the Johnson boy, was in the back, the onliest one ta survive. He told us little Tammy Scroggins there was blowin' the Emry boy.” Marvin hadn't even opened the second body bag yet. “Well, come ta find out, when tha stupid little shit busted his nut he lost control of tha vehicle and sent her of inta the trees off the Bonnerville Highway.” Marvin had already put the second body in the refrigerator. It would be long before the decomposition started to speed up. “That'sa damned shame too. I'da gave one of my arms to have fucked that little Scroggins girl... We had ta pry that pretty little mouth open to get that little Emry boy's dick out her mouth.” Jesus, Marvin thought to himself, he probably put it in the kid's shirt pocket. “Her jaws were locked tighter than virgin pussy in prison from tha head trama.” Trauma you idiot, Marvin thought. For the entire duration of Ralph's monologue Marvin had been getting the kid out of the body bag. He never bothered to reply to anything Ralph had to say but he continued anyway. “Any how, I'm guessin' she swallered it cause her head never came up. The airbags what did 'er.” Ralph stood there for another few seconds watching as Marvin removed the kid's shoes. “Well, I'ma get outta yur haire here. Take 'er easy Marvin.” Marvin didn't reply, just basked in sound of Waterford leaving the building.
What made people like that? Marvin thought idly to himself as he worked. What was the combination of things that came together to render a creature like Ralph Waterford or most any one he knew? It had to to be some kind of rotten seed that had grown such a sickening and witless plant that could only be found in populations like Bovine. Is the entire world devoid of any mental initiative or am I completely wrong? Marvin thought as he started to cut off Mark's shirt. As the stiffened fabric draped to either side, something slid out of Mark's shirt pocket, hitting the ground with a small smacking sound.
There you have it. Like I said I don't care what you say just say something
Why kill yourself when there are so many to take with you?