So little is to be said for your screams. Unheard and ignored, they choke on sobbing cries through the duct tape. And dirt rains down on you from above.
    I know the thoughts that are racing through your head, neurons catching fire as you squirm against the ropes, tossing mounds of dust and filth off and away from you. And it keeps raining down; bloody ashes from heaven.
“You‘re torturing yourself.” it’s an obvious frustration. I tied your hands behind your back, and your legs are useless from the paralyzing drugs. They won’t work now and they won’t ever work again.
“You were dead five months ago.”
    Still it’s an instinct you picked up from the earth. Six under, there it lay, too late to bring you any good, too late to get you out. You’re a dead man; you were dead from the very beginning. The lust to live won’t help you now.
    My palms sweat against the wood handle, but it’s tight in my grasp and nothing goes wrong. It’s all in place as I set it, and there’s nothing left but to seal you in hell, as you’ve always deserved. You can rot in the mud for as long as eternity and finally justice will be in place.
    It’s too late to plead yet your eyes tear with the act.
“I have no pity for you.”
    As I shovel up the unearthed clay and through it back on your body, cover up that devilish face I’m so sick of pretending that I love, there’s a thunder clash above me, like the clouds tearing themselves apart.
    It’s raining.
“I guess you‘re going to drown.”
    But there’s no telling which will suffocate you first.
“I bet you‘re thirst anyway.”
    I bet you’re swearing on revenge and I bet you’re cursing me to my own grave. And I can’t help but laugh at you as you’re panicking between intervals of anger and distress. Like a maniac, I just can’t stop laughing at you. Louder than your muffled screams, as I’m burying you alive, I am laughing at you. Until I cover you in filth and you can’t roll it off, until I can’t see you anymore and I can’t heard you anymore, and the dust fills to the top of your grave.
    The shovel presses it down, packs you in there, and all that’s left of you is a splinter spiked cross, reading to the legitimate that beneath this soil lays a man devout of his children and his loving wife, and may he rest in peace in the place where he very well belongs.