What We Bury (aka. Confessions)

Photo by Loren Cutler on Unsplash

A callous thunderstorm picked up and erupted through the wasteland. With a deafening roar, lightning struck and shook the earth. People scurried for cover as the thunderstorm continued unabated, leaving the streets empty and silent.

All sounds dispersed and only the patter of rain remained, and it was in those deadly seconds I stopped typing and looked over my shoulder.

The mesmerising sight of the crystal-clear downpour and the overcast weather sent chills down my spine.

I had been working on a screenplay when the thunderstorm picked up. It was a macabre story, much like the deluge, which drenched not only the earth but also my soul.

I lost focus and listened to the cadence of roaring thunder and burbling rain. Closing my eyes momentarily, I could hear the storm raging on, refusing to let up.

By the time I stood up and approached the leaded window, a sense of familiarity crept over me. The berry blue curtain hung gracefully, casting a soft, cool hue into the room as it gently swayed with the breeze.

My vision became muddled and my hands trembled. I backed away from the window as something passed through me and out of the cracked window.

I followed the translucent figure with my darting eyes until I no longer could. My heart raced, thumping in my ears. The thunderstorm came to an abrupt end.

When I returned to my desk, I turned off the monitor, sank into the leather armchair, and drifted into a peculiar sleep.

Spectres materialised in my mind, crafted from the depths of my imagination. It was an innate response from deep within my subconscious.

I had stayed up several nights, my eyes bloodshot and my body exhausted, typing away without considering my well-being.

My agent wanted a finished product by the end of the week. The details were meticulously written in the contract. And I had never put my signature on something I knew I couldn’t honour.

It was different this time around, though. No words and no sentences felt enough, and I spent more time deleting than writing. I had lost my touch. There was no use in denial.

Writing had taken up most of my time ever since I discovered my natural inclination to the craft. My passion led to a successful career in the industry with over 30 years of experience.

I wasted my youth on this lonely path, but I cherished every moment of solitude. I regretted nothing.

As time went on, however, as it always did, I found myself in a place where I no longer anticipated the rise of the morning sun.

By the age of sixty-three, I developed a severe depression and lost the passion which had kept me alive for all these years. The world felt void of any inherent meaning or direction.

Day after day, I awoke with a deep desire for the darkness of night. Writing became second to the overwhelming feeling of emptiness that dwelled within the innermost chamber of my heart.

I tried countless times to hide my pain, hoping that this feeling would eventually fade away. But it didn’t. I could no longer recognise myself, this old man, in the mirror.

He looked better than he felt; his voice was still cheerful and so was his toothless smile. Deep within, however, a gnawing pain grew in the pit of his stomach and overwhelmed his senses.

I opened my eyes. A senile figure stared at me from the black screen. His brown hair had turned grey, his lips were thin, and his eyes were hollow and sunken like the depths of the ocean.

In this suit of flesh, there was no trace remaining of the person I once was, just an empty shell stripped of its soul.

As I lay on the draped bed, the softness of the sheets embraced me and a sudden wave of melancholy washed over me. Unwittingly, I stared at the leaded window a second time.

It was three past eleven o’clock, the vacant streets were swallowed by shadows and illuminated only by the eerie glow of moonlight.

I stopped breathing and observed the silence of the gloaming. Time stood still and became lost in the unforgiven past.

My misty eyes became as wide as the full moon as a surge of warmth embroiled my body. I jerked up in a sweat. Someone watched me.

There, beyond the translucent glass, someone followed my every move and lay in wait like a predator would. It remained hidden from my sight, lurking in the shadows, yet its menacing presence haunted me.

Stepping out of bed, I walked towards the enticing window and felt the coolness of the glass against my fingertips.

My apartment stood in the middle of the city square, amidst a busy street filled with blinding lights and the raucous sounds of drunken revelry.

But the city had fallen asleep. Not a single soul disturbed the quietude.

Desperate to uncover the source of my distress, I scanned every turn, every corner, and every alleyway. But the wet streets were eerily quiet, as if they had been forsaken by the world.

I was completely alone in the here and now, my reflection in the glass the only living thing I could see. I turned around.

The faint sound of someone twisting the door handle arrested me. I took a step towards the redwood door, completely unaware of my movements, my heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

I felt on the handle, and as soon as I did, whoever tried to get into my bedroom let go. I stepped away and dropped my eyes. Someone stood right outside my door and waited.

I took another step backwards followed by several others, clutching to the desk beside my bed without taking my eyes off the silhouette beyond the door.

My cell phone slipped through my fingers and hit the floorboards as I tried to feel my way to it. I stopped breathing. The silhouette did not move.

I picked up the phone and dialled—a familiar voice called my name. I hung up. Was I hearing things? My hand shook as I put the phone away and advanced towards the locked door. Listening.

My quivering eyes moved from side to side, frantically, and welled up with tears. A pang of ache grew in my heart. My legs gave in and I collapsed on both knees. Could it really be… But how?

Like any ordinary person, I had skeletons in the cupboard. Everyone was aware of it yet no one dared to speculate. It was a secret I had harboured deep within my soul for the last few decades.

My entire career was built on falsehoods, and these lies had now come to haunt me. I sinned. Not once but twice. That one mistake led to another and each lie ate up my heart and rotted my insides.

But I was too deep into the mud to confess. All these years, I thought I could get away with it.

I was mistaken.

I made my way to the computer and was greeted by the soft hum of the monitor as I turned it on. Without a second thought, I erased all my irreplaceable files and started typing on a blank document.

There was no room for lies. It was time to come clean – it was time to come clean and pay for my overdue debts. It took me 30 years to see through the lies I had come to sincerely believe, and now I had to face my demons to recover my sanity.

I may not look like it now, but there was a time when I was a timid and withdrawn boy. My peers picked on me daily; I went to school each day knowing that it could be my last.

There was a boy in my class who was especially cruel to me. His name was Grayson Cooper. We were once friends and lived two blocks from one another.

I came from a poor household in the ghetto and was brought up by a single mother, whereas Grayson lived in an uptown neighbourhood where the rich lived. We were different yet the same at the same time.

We revelled in the heavy, bone-shaking riffs of deathcore, our dreams filled with visions of forming a band someday.

He was going to be the lead guitarist, and his solos would captivate audiences with his insane skills, while I was going to be the miserable vocalist whose lyrics would paint the picture of melancholy.

Together, we dared to dream big, but our hopes were crushed before we had the chance to make them a reality.

It all started when Grayson didn’t show up at school for a week and I did something I had promised him not to do. I went to his house.

Grayson, for whatever reason, disliked talking about his family. I promised him I would never set foot in his house or speak of his family.

But as his only friend, I couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of concern.

I thought he’d understand the sincerity of my apology and find it in his heart to forgive me for not keeping my promise. I was deadly wrong.

When I knocked on the door of the beige mansion, the weight of my actions settled in and a dishevelled Grayson opened it.

His ice-cold expression, even before he said a single word, told me I had crossed a line I could never undo.

As soon as he saw me, he became alarmed and wasted no time in telling me to scram before shutting the door in my face.

I couldn’t wrap my head around what had happened.

Grayson returned to school the following day, but we no longer talked. He treated me with indifference, giving me the cold shoulder, and eventually, that indifference turned into sheer hatred over time.

Before I knew it, I had become the target of a group of bullies. Grayson was their leader. I was so baffled, so surprised by how cruel and heartless Grayson had become overnight, that I couldn’t even defend myself.

I grew accustomed to the sound of fists landing on my body, the rhythmic thuds becoming a daily anticipation. My self-worth dwindled like a fading ember.

The drastic shift in Grayson’s behaviour left me bewildered, and I couldn’t understand why our friendship had taken such a turn.

The date was March 15th, 1996. Grayson, once again, was absent from school. For once, I wasn’t bullied. It was a day that would forever be ingrained in my memory – the day everything changed.

Grayson didn’t show up at school that entire week. I couldn’t tell if his absence was a miracle or a curse. Looking back, I now understand that it was the calm before the storm.

I was in the school library, my fingers grazing the spines of the books as I searched for a new fantasy novel to read, when I caught sight of Grayson peeking out from behind the wooden bookshelf.

He left a note on the dusty shelf before darting out through the cracked door. Everything happened in a blur and it took me a moment to realise that the note was meant for me.

It had been over ten days since I last saw Grayson, and as he fled, I only caught a fleeting glimpse of his weathered face. Something about his ghastly appearance, with the sunken cheeks and chapped lips, chilled me to the bone.

The note was carefully folded, its message hidden from prying eyes. He wanted to meet up in the forest that lay on the other side of the fence, opposite the running track.

I hesitated for good reasons, my intuition telling me to proceed with caution. What if he wanted to meet up at such a secluded place, where the silence was only broken by the distant rustling of leaves, for no other reason than to kill me?

But curiosity got the better of me. I couldn’t shake the image of his bloodshot eyes from my mind. What had happened to him in such a short time?

Just in case something should happen, I pocketed a pair of scissors from the library and made my way towards the running tracks.

In order to reach the fence, I had to weave my way through the bustling playground filled with primary schoolers.

The sound of the bells filled the air as I hurried past the red slide, knowing that the teachers would soon call the primary schools back inside.

No one was on the running track. The only sound that accompanied me was the rhythmic beat of my own footsteps as I jumped over the wooden fence and ventured into the forest.

I followed the narrow trail that led to a manmade grove, where rows of perfectly aligned trees stood. Grayson stood near the dense trees, his back facing me as I called out his name.

He turned around. I ran my fingers along the scissors, feeling the sharp edges through the holes in my sweater before I let go.

As I approached him, his ashen face arrested me once again. His lips were tinged with purple and his eyes were devoid of any expression.

His bones were visible through his thin, leathery skin and he bore a striking resemblance to the undead. How long had he been without food and water?

I furrowed my brows and dropped my eyes as I noticed he was holding something that fluttered in the wind. I blinked, my head swirling with confusion. It was a woman’s stocking with a lace pattern.

I lifted my gaze off it and stared at him, and that was when I noticed the glistening tears streaming down his cheeks. His tear-streaked face revealed the depth of his pain.

I instinctively took a step back.

“Are you afraid of me?” he said.

I stood there in silence, my mind blank, unsure of what words to utter. My life had become a living hell over the past two years – all thanks to Grayson and his friends. I almost went deaf, too, because of them.

Anyone in my place would tremble, not only in fear of his tormentors but also at the slightest flicker of his own shadow.

I didn’t want to respond, and so I didn’t. Once more, my eyes were drawn to the stocking in his hand.

I changed the subject. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t bother to follow my eyes. Instead, he turned his back to me, the silence between us growing heavy with unspoken words.

Bewildered, I couldn’t tear my eyes away as he tied the stocking to the trunk of the tree, the knot growing tighter with each twist.

Then he said something that would echo in my ears for the rest of my life. It sent shivers down my spine and made my blood run cold. Fear took hold of me, causing my body to stiffen and anchor me in place.

He peeked over his shoulder.

“Hold it.”

“What?” I began, trying to process what was happening. “I- I can’t.”

Grayson tied the other end of the stocking tightly around his bare neck. I took a step forward, my heart in my mouth, ready to intervene, but Grayson’s icy stare halted me in my tracks.

He repeated himself, his voice barely a whisper amidst the howling wind. I found myself frozen in place, unable to move a muscle.

Night after night, I pleaded with a god I didn’t believe in to help me escape Grayson’s torments, but this wasn’t what I had in mind.

I shook my head, the weight of terror settling in my bones. My breath quickened and became shallow. I wanted to tell him something – anything – but my dry lips remained sealed.

My mind went blank and a tingling sensation spread through my limbs.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

I couldn’t find the words to refute him. I didn’t want him to die, it was the last thing I wanted, but I was too startled to make a single sound.

My eyes welled up with tears. Why, I was thinking the entire time, why was he trying to kill himself? It was so sudden…

The Grayson I knew was carefree and unbothered, and if anyone were to contemplate suicide, it would have been me – not him.

My mind drifted to the past, replaying the exact moment our friendship ended. The Coopers, the beige mansion, and the wan-looking Grayson who told me to get out of his house.

I recalled the moment he kept looking over his shoulder back when I visited him for the first and last time, the sound of his quickened breath echoing in my ears still.

“What… in the world happened to you?”

The words escaped my lips before I could stop them, lingering in the air like a whispered secret. I caught a glimpse of surprise in his dark eyes, but it vanished before I could fully register it.

He lowered his gaze. I felt a deep ache in my chest, my heart heavy with an unknown sorrow. I found myself advancing, feeling the rough texture of the ground beneath my feet.

As I closed in, Grayson looked up, surprised, and swatted my outstretched hand away.

There was something about him that gave me a sense of unease. Something was off. But what exactly? My eyes darted around until they landed on the stocking slung around his neck.

There were easier ways to commit suicide, and much less painful ways to end an existence, so why had Grayson chosen to die in such an agonising and miserable way?

I didn’t understand why at the time – I was just a kid. But now, it all made sense.

It was a cruel punishment for all the wretched things that were beyond his control. He didn’t know any better.

Like me, he was just a child at the mercy of the adult who abused him. But he knew that the ghosts of his past would forever cast shadows on his present and future.

This was why Grayson did this. I wished I had spoken up back then, that I could find the right words to make him realise that none of this was his fault. But I couldn’t.

That moment, as he confided in me the reason our friendship fell apart – the real reason – I could do nothing but sob.

Grayson’s parents divorced when he was six years old. While his mum took his little sister to another city, he was left behind by his alcoholic dad.

His mum tried to take him with her too, he told me in those unforgettable moments, but his dad threatened to kill her and his sister if she did that.

His mum, hailing from the slums of the Philippines, grew up as the youngest of seven siblings in a destitute household. She met his father on a social media platform and decided to marry him at the tender age of eighteen for his wealth.

His dad promised her a good life, one that would finally release her and her family from the clutches of poverty, and she placed her unwavering trust in him.

Unfortunately, things didn’t unfold as she had anticipated.

Over the span of their fourteen-year marriage, his dad’s abusive tendencies progressively became worse. His mum ended things for good when she caught his dad sneaking into his little sister’s bed after drinking.

Even though she knew Grayson would be subjected to the same abuse, she abandoned him, hoping she was wrong. She wasn’t.

His deranged dad made him wear his mum’s clothes and makeup; the crimson dress she left behind, her translucent stockings and the blood-red lipsticks were all his now.

His dad abused him, then asked for forgiveness the following day only for the wicked pattern to repeat whenever he drank himself into a state of complete oblivion.

It was during these periods that he was forced to stay home. His whole body bore the marks of abuse, and Grayson became a living corpse.

No one knew, no one suspected.

Above all else, fear consumed him. The abuse stripped him of his capacity to experience normal sensations and emotions. He caught himself having disturbing thoughts of children his own age and younger – a conflicted mixture of desire and disgust.

Like his dad, he was turning into a monster, and the ongoing struggle to resist his temptations consumed his thoughts. He was on the verge of losing control. He reached a point where the fear of his own being haunted his nights, leaving him sleepless.

But he couldn’t escape the growing madness that was taking hold of him. His repulsive emotions burrowed into his heart, embedding themselves within his brain. He wrestled with the thought of ending his life but couldn’t follow through with it.

Not until then.

I should’ve tried to dissuade him, suggest therapy or any other form of help, but deep down, I knew it would be futile. Even then, as we stood face to face, I could see this wicked thing reflected in his dark eyes. Grayson had already succumbed to the monster.

I helped him do it. I helped him end his miserable life. And just like he told me it would, the monster tried to reason with me, as it was suffocating to death.

Grayson told me not to listen to it. Even as it begged for mercy, and pleaded with me to help it, I didn’t release my grip on the stocking.

When his lifeless body finally stopped struggling, I let go. It took six or seven minutes, but it felt like an eternity had gone by.

With the scissors I had brought, I cut off the stocking and dragged Grayson along the fading trail, venturing further into the forest. I couldn’t bear to abandon him in such a state and then go back home.

By the time I dug out a shallow grave for my friend to fit in and bid farewell, the day faded into the darkness of night.

I closed his eyes with my sleeve and then tucked his tongue back inside his stiff mouth. I had never seen a dead person before, but I knew his frozen face would forever haunt me.

I rolled him into the shallow pit, feeling the damp soil beneath my hands as I covered it up as much as possible. The scent of wet earth filled the air as I lay beside my friend’s unmarked grave.

With no cell phone to rely on, I could already imagine the scolding I would receive from Micah, my sister, for not making it home on time.

So I spent the night here, with the soothing sounds of crickets and rustling leaves. But I didn’t sleep a wink. I couldn’t.

Grayson’s last words echoed in my mind, refusing to fade away. I cried until my tears ran dry and the sharp ache in my chest subsided.

I didn’t venture into the forest from that day on. Whenever I peered at the running track across the playground, my heart would beat with such intensity that I could practically hear it echo in my ears.

This was the first secret I locked away in the depths of my soul. But there was more.

It took Grayson’s dad six weeks to realise that he was gone, and by the time our teacher reported him missing it was too late.

The animals ripped apart what remained of him and scattered them all over the forest. No one found him. He remains a missing person to this very day.

Later, I heard that Grayson’s dad kidnapped a four-year-old girl from the ghetto. They found her lifeless body crammed inside a small container outside of the beige mansion. Her bowels were hanging out of her body.

Grayson’s dad was so intoxicated that he couldn’t even remember what he had done.

When he was released from prison two years later for good behaviour, the deceased girl’s older brother shot him to death. I didn’t feel sorry for him. In fact, I believed he deserved far worse.

I stopped typing.

My eyes landed on the locked drawer to my right before shifting to the bedroom door. The silhouette was still there, beyond the door, waiting for me.

The truth demanded to be heard. Its echoes reverberated in the prevailing silence. After all these years, it longed to resurface and see the light of day.

Unlocking the drawer, my fingers brushed against the delicate fabric of the stocking, its softness triggering memories of that day.

I stood up and trudged towards the window, the floorboards grating beneath my weight. As I slid the window open, a gentle creak broke the stillness.

I released my grip. The piece of fabric vanished into the twilight, which embraced the rising sun on the distant horizon.

A heavy burden lifted off my shoulders and I found myself stooping over the window frame, gasping for air.

My confession was not over.

Continue.