The Delirium of Negation

He wasn’t quite sure exactly what the cause of his own death was. It must have been something quick and silent that had come in his sleep. A brain aneurism maybe or a failed heart valve. He supposed it really didn’t matter, and after all, curiosity is for the living.

There was some concern over the question of why he was still here. Why was his body still walking around? That question begat other questions and all of them swirled in the shallow soup of his mind, going nowhere, circling the drain. When all is said and done, there is really nothing that matters any more.

He sat at his kitchen table. Morning light was glowing behind the closed blinds. Thoughts of the daily routine floated by, time in the bathroom, brushing teeth, using the toilet, all of that needless anymore. It must be that a tiny spark was left smoldering in his mind. A tiny spark was still animating him.

The tiny spark generated a hunger urge and he knew he should consume something into his body. The small ember was surely dying, but he should nurture it while it survived. He found food in the cupboard and put it in his mouth. Uncooked pasta would keep the body ambulatory as the mind wore down.

He shuffled down his hallway in the gloom. The urge to expel waste rose and faded. Soon he was tracking his own filth throughout the house. There was a noise at the door and he was still. Probably a solicitor with nothing that was of any concern.

The sun behind the closed blinds went dark and he sat at his kitchen table. Soon the glow returned and he remained sitting. Again, the sun went dark and again the glow returned. There were more noises at his door, but he ignored them. He consumed small amounts of uncooked pasta.

He decided that if he was dead, he should at least appear that way, so he lay in his bed. He was still, his shallow mind barely functioning. The light and dark came and went.

When he was sure that the spark in his mind was ebbing away and would finally extinguish soon, he made his final plans. When the light went away from the windows, he walked slowly to a shed in his back yard. There he retrieved a shovel with a worn handle and a rusty blade. He slowly made his way to a cemetery a few miles from home. He dragged the shovel by the handle, the blade scraping and clattering behind him on the road.

***

He had avoided it for as long as he could, but it was part of the job. Officer Tom Campbell turned the wheel and pulled into Rose Garden Memorial Cemetery. He grew up in this area and this was the one place that thoroughly creeped him out. When he was a kid, he was the victim of older boys who had cruel streaks. They found delight in making younger children cry and wet themselves. He spent more than a few nights in the cemetery, huddling and crying until the sun came up.

 If he skipped this part of his patrol, eventually he would be found out. Everyone at the station knew of his phobia and a rookie, barely out of the nest and on his own, couldn’t afford the loss of face.

The headlights illuminated the path as he drove between the gravesites. Ornate headstones gave way to even more ornate mausoleums. It was a long winding path, probably serene in the daytime. He noticed how quiet it was and rolled up the window. He circled a small pond and headed toward the exit.

He saw a freshly dug grave among a group of headstones. It struck him as odd. The grounds were usually immaculate. Strange that someone would leave unfinished work for the visitors to see. He shone his spotlight over and scanned back and forth. His hand froze when he saw what appeared to be a human foot hanging out of the excavation.

“Oh, dear lord, this is it,” he mumbled to himself. His hand was shaking as he opened the door. With his flashlight in hand, he walked toward the grave. The worst visions of the worst nightmares were flashing in his head. Slowly he approached and he shone his light into the shallow hole.

There was a corpse there. Tom’s heart was pounding. It was clad in filthy pajamas and lying face down in the freshly turned dirt. He stood frozen, unsure of what to do. Finally, he snapped out of it and radioed it in to the station. He didn’t know how to describe what he was seeing.

“I don’t know, I’m not sure, but it looks like someone dug up a body out here at the north end of Rose Garden. They left it lying in the hole. There’s a shovel by the grave.”

The radio crackled and the dispatcher spoke.

“Are you sure the victim is dead?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Tom said. “He’s all shriveled up and pale. He’s covered in dirt and he stinks real bad.”

“We need to know if we should send out medical,” the voice came back. “Verify that the victim is deceased.”

No way, Tom thought to himself. It was bad enough that he was here in the first place. He should have skipped the cemetery. He used the toe of his boot to nudge the foot. The body was stiff, definitely deceased.

He steeled himself and crouched down. With one hand on the edge of the hole, he lowered himself down until he could reach over and touch the shoulder. He lifted the body slightly. The face was settled into the loose earth. When he turned the body, caked dirt fell from the mouth. He saw a pale face with sunken closed eyes. The eyes suddenly fluttered open.

Tom stared at the gray-filmed eyes for a split second before he scrambled backwards. He climbed screaming from the grave. Unable to stand, he scooted backwards watching the hole, expecting to see the corpse rise.

The dispatcher heard his frantic, almost incoherent screams coming over the radio.

“Send an ambulance!” He screamed. “He’s alive! The body’s alive!” He broke down crying. For the next twenty minutes, he huddled and cried.

***

One ambulance entered the cemetery at the main entrance and another entered through the north exit. They rolled to a stop with their lights flashing. Tom stood waving at them.

“Over here,” he said hoarsely.

Two paramedics exited from each vehicle. They seemed to be taking their time, talking and laughing loudly amongst themselves. Tom was puzzled. He overheard them talking about last week’s football game.

“Hey, guys! Over here. A man needs medical attention!”

The men approached carrying a stretcher. They were all smiling

“It looks like maybe they buried someone while they were still alive.” Tom said. “It looks like someone dug him up. He looks dead, but I saw him open his eyes.

The first paramedic grinned.

“Okay. Let’s go take a look at this dead alive guy.”

They walked to the open grave and stood around it.

“Hello, Mr. Tibbets,” the first paramedic said. They all noticed the incredulous look on Tom’s face.

“This is Mr. Tibbets,” He said to Tom. He has this really rare mental condition, I think it's called Cotard's Delusion, or something like that. It mostly occurs in Africa and Asia, but every once in a while it pops up in a western country. About every six months or so he gets this idea in his head that he’s dead. He stops caring about everything, including hygiene. It’s as real in his mind as I am standing here talking to you. Eventually he wants to be among his own kind and he comes down here to the cemetery. Usually he just lies on the ground, this is the first time I’ve seen him dig a hole.”

Tom was dumbfounded.

“So what do you do with him? He looks and smells dead.”

“We clean him up and ship him off to the state mental hospital. They’ve got a therapy program that seems to work for a while and eventually they let him go home and then we end up back here at Rose Garden.”

Tom shook his head.

“I’ve gotta get out of here,” he said. He walked back to his patrol car and got in. As far as he was concerned, his shift was over. He knew he would suffer terrible derision at the station tomorrow. Now he just needed to get home so he could change out of his wet pants.

© 2014 Shock Armstrong