They say the earth swallows your shame. This is why when I stomped a bouquet of roses on the floor after I found out my prom date had asked out another guy, it sagged into the concrete. This is why the business down the street that was embezzling money collapsed into a chasm overnight, the roof antenna sticking out from a mound of earth like a grave marker. This is why my father, shovel in hand, dragged me to the cemetery after I smashed a vase of lilies and proceeded to bury me alive.

Dirt. Raining from the sky. The ground moving beneath me, tugging at my shoes, sucking me under.

I claw at the sides of the ditch, my nails filling with dirt. Light flashes. The glint of a shovel. A slice of the blue sky. Dirt falls on my face. I inhale it, coughing. I claw back the dirt until the sky reappears, but again comes the shovel. Dirt scatters. Another mass strikes me. The sky doesn’t return. My arm is stuck. My leg twitches but won’t budge.

My heart races.

I can’t see. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry.” My father’s muffled voice through the falling dirt. “I’ve failed you. I must bury this mistake.”

A failed project, a broken screw on his unsold table, a reminder of my father’s unfaithfulness, a secret sawing him up inside. Something to be hidden. Something to be buried.

“Pl—” I gasp for breath, but it doesn’t come. —ease.

Dirt floods into my mouth.

Earth crashes down against my skull, sealing me in darkness. Pressure envelops me on all sides. It might just be the adrenaline, but it feels like I am sinking deeper. The walls are breathing at my sides, pulling me downward as if digesting an offering. The world is buzzing, my lungs are suffocating, my ribs crack beneath the weight.

Baba, come back. I want to scream, but I can’t. I don’t want to be a mistake. But of course I know I am. I’ve always known.

When I was seven, I attended the funeral of a woman I’d never known. When my father took me by the hand and led me to the open casket, ignoring the questions and stares of the people around us, I peered upon the face of a beautiful woman with pale skin and amber hair. This was my father’s legal wife, my “mother.” I didn't look like her because my real mother had left me in the bathtub where she’d given birth and run away with blood still staining her skirt. I was raised in darkness. Through attics and secrets and stranger’s hands. So at age seven, I held the dead hand of this woman I never knew and who never knew me because the secret of my father’s affair had been kept from her. But I learned to grieve for her, because my father had looked so fondly upon her pale face when he took up the shovel and buried her. After, he looked up at me and down at the shovel, as if contemplating whether he could bury me too.

I am suffocating beneath his feet now. I imagine that I am lying in a casket because the pain slamming down on my chest is too much to bear. I imagine scented flowers and a sea of weeping black—the funeral no one will ever give me. No mossy tombstone would ever be erected to differentiate the ground where dogs piss from the ground where I drowned beneath the earth. No one would know the name of the boy whose fractured bones might be dug up years later.

The air runs out….

My heart slows…

It stops.

─═≡≡≡╲̷╱̴╲̷╱̶╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶≡̷≢═̶─̷▓̴▒̷░̸⟍̴⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̸⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̷⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸╱̷╲̶╱̴╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶╲̸▒̷▒̴⋯̸⟋̷⟍̶▓̴▒̸░̷⟋̴⟍̶⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸⟍̷⟋̶⋯̴▒̸▒̷╲̸╱̷╲̶▓̴▒̸░̷╱̶╲̴╱̸╲̷╱̶░̴▒̷▓̸≡̷≡̴≢⟍̶⟋̷▓̴▒̸░̷⟍̶⟋̸⟍̴⟋̷░̶▒̸▓̴≡̷≢≡̴

─═≡≡≡╲̷╱̴╲̷╱̶╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶≡̷≢═̶─̷▓̴▒̷░̸⟍̴⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̸⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̷⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸╱̷╲̶╱̴╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶╲̸▒̷▒̴⋯̸⟋̷⟍̶▓̴▒̸░̷⟋̴⟍̶⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸⟍̷⟋̶⋯̴▒̸▒̷╲̸╱̷╲̶▓̴▒̸░̷╱̶╲̴╱̸╲̷╱̶░̴▒̷▓̸≡̷≡̴≢⟍̶⟋̷▓̴▒̸░̷⟍̶⟋̸⟍̴⟋̷░̶▒̸▓̴≡̷≢≡̴ ─═≡≡≡╲̷╱̴╲̷╱̶╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶≡̷≢═̶─̷▓̴▒̷░̸⟍̴⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̸⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̷⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸╱̷╲̶╱̴╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶╲̸▒̷▒̴⋯̸⟋̷⟍̶▓̴▒̸░̷⟋̴⟍̶⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸⟍̷⟋̶⋯̴▒̸▒̷╲̸╱̷╲̶▓̴▒̸░̷╱̶╲̴╱̸╲̷╱̶░̴▒̷▓̸≡̷≡̴≢⟍̶⟋̷▓̴▒̸░̷⟍̶⟋̸⟍̴⟋̷░̶▒̸▓̴≡̷≢≡̴

─═≡≡≡╲̷╱̴╲̷╱̶╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶≡̷≢═̶─̷▓̴▒̷░̸⟍̴⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̸⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̷⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸╱̷╲̶╱̴╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶╲̸▒̷▒̴⋯̸⟋̷⟍̶▓̴▒̸░̷⟋̴⟍̶⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸⟍̷⟋̶⋯̴▒̸▒̷╲̸╱̷╲̶▓̴▒̸░̷╱̶╲̴╱̸╲̷╱̶░̴▒̷▓̸≡̷≡̴≢⟍̶⟋̷▓̴▒̸░̷⟍̶⟋̸⟍̴⟋̷░̶▒̸▓̴≡̷≢≡̴

─═≡≡≡╲̷╱̴╲̷╱̶╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶≡̷≢═̶─̷▓̴▒̷░̸⟍̴⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̸⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̷⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸╱̷╲̶╱̴╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶╲̸▒̷▒̴⋯̸⟋̷⟍̶▓̴▒̸░̷⟋̴⟍̶⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸⟍̷⟋̶⋯̴▒̸▒̷╲̸╱̷╲̶▓̴▒̸░̷╱̶╲̴╱̸╲̷╱̶░̴▒̷▓̸≡̷≡̴≢⟍̶⟋̷▓̴▒̸░̷⟍̶⟋̸⟍̴⟋̷░̶▒̸▓̴≡̷≢≡̴ ─═≡≡≡╲̷╱̴╲̷╱̶╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶≡̷≢═̶─̷▓̴▒̷░̸⟍̴⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̸⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̷⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸╱̷╲̶╱̴╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶╲̸▒̷▒̴⋯̸⟋̷⟍̶▓̴▒̸░̷⟋̴⟍̶⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸⟍̷⟋̶⋯̴▒̸▒̷╲̸╱̷╲̶▓̴▒̸░̷╱̶╲̴╱̸╲̷╱̶░̴▒̷▓̸≡̷≡̴≢⟍̶⟋̷▓̴▒̸░̷⟍̶⟋̸⟍̴⟋̷░̶▒̸▓̴≡̷≢≡̴

─═≡≡≡╲̷╱̴╲̷╱̶╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶≡̷≢═̶─̷▓̴▒̷░̸⟍̴⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̸⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̷⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸╱̷╲̶╱̴╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶╲̸▒̷▒̴⋯̸⟋̷⟍̶▓̴▒̸░̷⟋̴⟍̶⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸⟍̷⟋̶⋯̴▒̸▒̷╲̸╱̷╲̶▓̴▒̸░̷╱̶╲̴╱̸╲̷╱̶░̴▒̷▓̸≡̷≡̴≢⟍̶⟋̷▓̴▒̸░̷⟍̶⟋̸⟍̴⟋̷░̶▒̸▓̴≡̷≢≡̴

─═≡≡≡╲̷╱̴╲̷╱̶╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶≡̷≢═̶─̷▓̴▒̷░̸⟍̴⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̸⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̷⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸╱̷╲̶╱̴╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶╲̸▒̷▒̴⋯̸⟋̷⟍̶▓̴▒̸░̷⟋̴⟍̶⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸⟍̷⟋̶⋯̴▒̸▒̷╲̸╱̷╲̶▓̴▒̸░̷╱̶╲̴╱̸╲̷╱̶░̴▒̷▓̸≡̷≡̴≢⟍̶⟋̷▓̴▒̸░̷⟍̶⟋̸⟍̴⟋̷░̶▒̸▓̴≡̷≢≡̴ ─═≡≡≡╲̷╱̴╲̷╱̶╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶≡̷≢═̶─̷▓̴▒̷░̸⟍̴⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̸⟋̷⟍̶⟋̴⟍̷⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸╱̷╲̶╱̴╲̸╱̷╲̴╱̶╲̸▒̷▒̴⋯̸⟋̷⟍̶▓̴▒̸░̷⟋̴⟍̶⟋̸░̷▒̴▓̸⟍̷⟋̶⋯̴▒̸▒̷╲̸╱̷╲̶▓̴▒̸░̷╱̶╲̴╱̸╲̷╱̶░̴▒̷▓̸≡̷≡̴≢⟍̶⟋̷▓̴▒̸░̷⟍̶⟋̸⟍̴⟋̷░̶▒̸▓̴≡̷≢≡̴

A low rumble. The earth awakens. I don’t know how long it is—seconds, hours, days even—but eventually my heart begins to beat. Everything begins to pulse from below, a throbbing sensation that drills into my bones.

I can hear them. The voices of the dead around me, the bodies so closely packed at my sides, whispering the names engraved on their gravestones.

Then, there is another more ancient voice. A voice without words that I can feel from the edges of my fingertips to the skin beneath my shoes. I can trace it down—feel, touch, and see the world through its vibration. The worms eating through the surrounding dirt. The rocks deeper beneath. The molten core of the earth where golden flames reach up like veins toward me, a heartbeat.

The earth is alive.

You are mine, it says. The words radiate through the ground.

I’m not breathing—or maybe I am. Air presses from the dirt and passes through my skin. I drink with the earth, in and out. Rocks crumble a mile away. Molten liquid bubbles leagues down. Continental plates lift with each inhale and settle back down with each exhale. Bodies decay. Earthquakes shudder. Volcanoes erupt an ocean away. I feel power rising and falling like waves. I feel it within me, because I am earth and it is me.

You will return what belongs to me. The earth compresses at my sides. I feel the footsteps of the people all across the town. The hard clacking of heels. The thumping of boots. The sliding of worn-down shoes. I feel the heat of their bent bodies and taste their tears seeping into the floor. They want to be here with me. I could bring them rest.

No, no, no. Chills run down my spine. Those thoughts are not mine.

There is something unnerving about the earth’s voice. Something about the way I am nothing to it.

I grit my teeth, feel my body again, and try to burst through the dirt. The whole world ripples in response. A wave of pressure and heat floods over me, the dead’s whispers growing louder. I can hear them now, their jeering voices.

Worthless…pathetic…mistake. You belong to the earth. You deserve to be buried away.

Of course, how could I have forgotten?

The stranger in the casket. The whispers of the other people in the room. My suspension from school. The growing list of assignments I could never bring myself to do, because what would be the point anyway? It would all be the same in the end. From dust to dust.

The colliding of tectonic plates. My emotions dull, and I imagine my brain encased in a layer of rock. A tiredness settles into my bones. I want the earth to consume me. I want to rest here forever in this mossy womb and never see the light. But then the earth cracks open above my head. The earth turns fluid, and I can move again. I don’t try to fight. I push away at the dirt and let the earth carry me upward. Somehow I break through to the surface and drag myself out of the ground, coughing and blowing up clouds of dirt.

Night has fallen. The dust settles, revealing rows and rows of tombstones. A shovel lays discarded a few feet away. But I am both dead and alive. I feel the earth pulsing beneath my feet, cracking and breathing. It stirs within me, beckoning me forward. I can’t resist it. I don’t deserve to.

I don’t like it here. When the wind touches my dirt-coated skin, peeling the debris away, it feels like a razor blade being dragged through my flesh. An owl hoots, and I have the unexplainable urge to chase it down, yank it by its tail feather, and crack its skull against the earth. Everything is so loud. The crackle of leaves in the trees, the chirping of crickets, the cars racing by, the dead whispering: “It’s always been like this, it’s always been like this, it’s always been like this…”

A gasping breath. I pause. Someone is hunched over on the dirt, clenching a gravestone for support. It’s my father. Mud, mixed with his tears, coats his hands like blood.

So much noise.

He screams when he sees me. I know what I must look like: covered from head to toe in dirt, my ribs miraculously mended, my eyes piercing through him and at the earth below. He doesn’t stop screaming. I clamp my hands over my ears in irritation.

When I look at him, all I see is decomposing flesh. A man worth nothing.

I know what to do. The earth responds to me, sinking down where my feet step. I pick up the discarded shovel. The ground beneath me hums in approval.

You will return what belongs to me. What belongs to the earth? The things that deserve to be buried, hidden, rotten beneath the ground for generations. Secrets, mistakes, unwanted sons, unloving fathers. The things no one would care to dig up for a thousand years.

There is a thunderous crack as the earth crumbles open. Pleading. My father’s hand grips onto the edge of the sinkhole, dirt crumbling at the edges. He’s shouting someone’s name. My name? Doesn’t matter. The earth rumbles with laughter. I am in a state of mania. I plunge the shovel into the earth and drop it into the hole, over and over again, sweat dripping down my brow. I ignore the screams, the sound of suffocation, the sense of wrongness in my heart. I watch as the writhing body disappears, as the earth closes up over his head, as silence descends on the earth.

Quiet—finally.

I go home, lock the shovel in the shed, scrub my body clean even though it burns, and make pasta for dinner. Something has changed. I feel pulled toward the earth, my breath in sync with the bubbling of the molten core below.

I feel heavier now. I’ve gotten rid of my shame.

The news never tells the whole story. People start to disappear, and they pop up in the headlines, on billboards, on little flyers taped to poles.

I recognize the stern face of the chemistry teacher who had failed me last semester. He was considered the worst teacher at our school right up until he disappeared, in which case suddenly he became the best—an unshakable man, known for calm collectedness. They don’t talk about the tears that had rolled down his eyes as he scraped at the crumbling earth, the way he’d begged for help, the way he’d confessed about cheating on his wife as his breath strained away.

Also on the news, I recognize the face of a girl who always sat alone in the cafetaria, who would always curl her hair around her finger over and over when she spoke, who cried with mascara running down her face. She’d fallen to her knees and buried her face in her hands when I intercepted her on the way to the bus stop. I slammed my palm against the sidewalk. I was surprised her disappearance was even noticed. The moment she’d fallen into the crack, the sidewalk had sealed itself back together—a gasp swallowed by the wind, as if she had never existed to begin with.

My latest offering was the star of the track team. Much like everything else in his life, he’d run from me, zigzagging through the neighborhoods, sweat dripping down a terrified face. The news had fixated on him for far longer than others because he was the son of rich parents, Ivy-bound, and beloved by everyone. They showed the black-and-white footage of him scaling the fence of his backyard, glancing back to make sure he was safe, and the earth shaking beneath his feet. Him tripping. Getting up. Tripping again. The footage cut out, and when it came back again, he was gone.

They are sending drones and helicopters out to find the missing people. They are scanning the surface of the earth when they really should be looking far far below.

I feel their hearts pulsing with the core of the earth, their bodies decaying, turning into raw energy. I can hear them now, weeping among the dead. I was irredeemable… Nobody noticed me… They only loved my success…

The earth swells beneath my feet. My chest rises and falls with it.

I can’t help it. Part of me aches to see their contorted faces, mouths flooded with dirt, but when I try to let go of the shovel, the earth rumbles and voices scream in my mind. They remind me of the truth. I belong beneath the earth. They belong beneath the earth. So I continue shoveling dirt.

Now, I don’t need to be reminded. I keep my gaze downward toward the sidewalk in front of me as I walk. The light hurts my eyes. Everything about existing hurts. I am reminded of those moments of stillness when I was sealed off from the world above, and it no longer hurt to breathe because I was not breathing at all.

I envy the people I bury. I envy their screams and wails. I wish I could feel something, anything, because my heart is as hard as the rock below. Each day I turn on the backyard hose, water down the empty flowerbed, and lay facedown in the mud. It’s warm and welcoming. Each day I seem to sink deeper and deeper. There are times when I forget to come up for air. Only when my lungs feel like they will burst am I forced to get up. I know one day I won’t. I will drink up the earth and stay there until I am one with it again.

But for now, I keep walking on. I am contemplating my next target when I hear a noise behind me. I don’t turn around.

It’s the noise again, louder and more urgent this time. A girl’s voice. I claw at my hair in irritation. She blocks my path.

Sharp, confrontational eyes. Hands on her hips. A fanny pack strapped to her waist.

Myna. Memories of us climbing trees. Her hair swinging wild, laughing as I wobbled on a nearby branch. Us passing test answers beneath the table in middle school, jolting in tandem when the teacher passed by. Me, kinder, only a few months ago, awkwardly putting an arm around her on the bench outside McDonalds after her breakup, not knowing how to stop the tears from flowing.

She returned the favor in the days before my father decided to bury me. She had let me stay at her place, eating popcorn and slurping instant ramen until my father’s delirium subsided. I wish I had stayed. She would let me stay the night, give me her bed and sleep on the floor if I asked. She would trade me her homework, fail her classes so I wouldn’t have to. She would trade me her soul to save mine. But I didn’t deserve that kind of love. So I went home. At my father’s house, I saw the lilies on the living room table. I knew what they meant. I wanted to burn them all.

Now, she wants answers. She doesn’t know that she is no longer talking to the same person—the boy she knew is still buried somewhere beneath the earth.

“Where have you been?” She yanks my shoulder to stop me from leaving. “What did we agree to?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter. “There’s no emergency.”

“You said you wouldn’t ignore my calls! That you would check in with me if you went home.”

I don’t respond.

“I was worried sick about you. There are people disappearing, people we know. Did you see the news? My church is holding a vigil, making offerings to the sink holes as if throwing away stupid minerals will do any—”

“Why?” I shove her away with enough intensity that she stumbles. “Why are you here?”

If she knew who I’d become, what I’ve done, she would surely run away.

Myna’s mouth opens with shock. “Your dad—”

“He’s not a problem anymore. He’s never been the problem. I’m the problem.”

I try to say it as a matter-of-fact, but my voice breaks, betraying me. I see their faces. The women at the funeral whispering about me behind my back. My father chewing on poisonous white lilies—my biological mother’s favorite flower—as he rocked back and forth on the living room couch. I never knew if he did it out of care or spite because he would spit them into the fireplace before peeling off another petal. All I knew was that they made him look at me the way you look at a bottle of beer before you twist its head off. I never cared to make friends at school. Everything felt like a puppet show of “hello,” “goodbye,” and “how are you,” and I would always imagine strings guiding peoples’ facial features and plastic behind their eyes. I saw their hesitation when they met my gaze, the rumors floating in their heads.

I stopped trying a long time ago.

“No, you’re not the problem.” She tries to reach for me, but I step off the sidewalk onto the dirt. I can feel my shoes squish into the ground.

“Yes, I am. When will you understand, Myna? You only ever make things worse.”

Her nostrils flare.

“We’re not doing this.” She digs through her pack, talking as she searches for her keys. “We’re going to go to my house and we’re going to watch a movie and get your grades up and sneak you back before your father notices and make everything right—” Myna stops. “You’re sinking.”

She’s right. I look down. My shoes had sunk into the dirt. The earth was already up to my shins, and I am sinking lower and lower. I will the earth to break apart, but it doesn’t answer me. Maybe it never did.

“Jacob.” Her eyes glitter with tears. For once, my name is not muffled. It awakens something inside me, something painful, something that stretches toward the light. “I-I don’t know what to say to help you anymore….I don’t know…I don’t know…”

I reach out on instinct and grab her hand. “Say nothing.”

See me.

I’m a head shorter than her now. The earth continues to swallow me whole. But she grabs me with her other hand and yanks me out of the ground. I let her. I shake the dirt from my pants and meet her face to face.

“Promise me you will call me if this happens again. Actually say it—say you promise.”

I hesitate. Squint at the burning sun. I imagine the fresh dirt on the shovel still hidden in the shed. Will I call her? Will I stop burying everything away?

I meet her eyes, so desperate to help, ashamed if she does not.

“I promise,” I say, and I at least mean it then.

By the time I call her a few days later, my heart had solidified into stone. An idea had grown in my head, stirred by the voices below. I tell her to meet me at the cemetery. I have my shovel in hand, and the earth rumbles beneath my feet.

Earthquakes are now thundering across the suburbs at unheard-of rates. Landslides shut down highways. The ground splits apart randomly at your feet. A sink hole opened up across the football field and swallowed the team alive. The school closed down after that.

I had insisted Myna come meet me after shouting back and forth across the phone. She said it was not safe. I said it would be fine. She said we could go to her house instead. I snapped that I would be there whether she came or not—and finally she begrudgingly agreed.

Now, her lone figure hesitantly strolls toward me along the rows of tombs. Night has fallen, and the moonlight casts long shadows across the graves. By now, a few missing people had been discovered, their corpses dug up from the earth. When Myna sees me, realization flashes in her eyes. She knows it by the coldness of my gaze, by the shovel leaned at my side. The disappearances. The suffocations. My father.

The voices of the dead rise up to greet her, and I know she can finally hear them too.

You let him become like this. They hiss. You promised to help him. You failed as a friend. Who are you now?

She falls to her knees, hair covering her face, and I know the earth has won.

The soil starts to crumble in a circle beneath her, cracks fracturing across the ground from my feet to hers. The ground falls away, and she drops with a gasp out of sight. I grab the shovel, press the cold, hard steel to my forehead, before making my way over to the edge of the hole.

She deserves to be buried. The earth beckons me on.

Suddenly, there is a roar. As I dig the shovel into the floor, something grabs hold of my ankle. It’s Myna—her other hand clawing against the dirt, her hair a jumbled mess, her shoes scraping against the edge of the hole. Her face is twisted with sweat. Her nails dig into my skin, drawing blood.

“Jacob.” She gasps. “Please don’t do this.”

The ground rumbles, her legs flail against the falling soil, loosening falling rocks. Her desperate eyes meet mine—a final plea.

I swing the shovel down at her wrist, and she lets go with a hiss of pain before sliding back down into the sinkhole. The earth rumbles with victory, and I am one with it again, feeling Myna’s tiny heartbeat thumping with grief, feeling the molten core rising up to suck the sorrow away. I forget that fleeting feeling of wanting the warm light on my skin. I forget that brief moment of recognition when she used my name.

Who is she again? It bothers me for a moment that I do not know, but then the feeling vanishes. It’s replaced by the feeling of millions of insects burrowing beneath my skin. I itch my palm, knowing that they will never go away.

I toss in a shovel of dirt. Then another. The girl goes still as the earth shakes. A tree falls somewhere in the distance. The world is crumbling.

I plunge the shovel into the earth for another round, but something takes hold of my ankle again. I’m thrown off balance and fall backward. I lose hold of the shovel, and I am dragged into the sinkhole. Hands yank me downward. Myna’s rasping breath is hot against face. Tears and dirt stain her cheeks. Then her face is blocked by the crumbling dirt. She tries to climb over me, kicking my hand loose so that I slide deeper into the hole. My heart pounds as dirt scatters and darkness descends over my eyes. With a jolt of panic, I am reminded of the feeling of suffocation when my father buried me.

Return what belongs to me. The earth rumbles, showering dirt on us. Who belongs to the earth?

We do. I lunge for her, grabbing onto her leg as soil crumbles. Myna struggles. Her flailing leg hits me in the face. I swallow dirt. My cheek burns. She grips onto the edge of the sinkhole. She slips. I seize the opportunity and yank her down by the shirt. She tries to twist away. I pull her hair. She cries out in pain. Dirt scatters and falls. We are both coughing and gasping and being dragged deeper into the earth. I yank her down again, clawing red lines into her skin. I don’t care that I’m sinking too. All I know is that she belongs to the earth, she belongs to the earth, she belongs to the earth…

The walls start to cave in, suffocating us both. She stops struggling. I right myself, feeling victorious.

Then, she does something I don’t expect. She twists toward me and shoves hard. I fall backward, my head slamming against the rock. A large chunk of dirt falls on me, and I’m paralyzed on one side of my body. Free from my grasp, Myna kicks and hauls herself out of the hole. She disappears, leaving me staring up at the night sky.

Moonlight filters through the dust. I stop struggling and gasp for breath. Dirt crumbles from the edges and settles over my skin.

No matter, I think. I’ll find her again. I’ll bury every last one of them. Again, I can trace through the ground, locate the warm bodies above, hear their anxious footfalls against the floor. I can feel their racing hearts, taste the secrets in the dryness of their breath, smell the skin rotting on their slumped shoulders. I will grant their wish to hide away. I will give them rest.

Someone reappears at the top of the hole. At first, I think it’s my father, once again here to suffocate his cursed son, but then I realize it’s Myna. Her face covered in tears—she holds the shovel.

Apologies fall alongside the soil.

“I tried to help you—even if you never wanted to be helped.”

Dirt rains down.

“But I can’t let you drag anyone else under.”

Chunks of it slam against my chest. Darkness drenches me again. My chest tightens and releases with pain.

Betrayal bubbles in my throat, but as energy drains away, my anger slowly subsides into fear. Myna? Come back…I’m-I’m scared.

The encasing around my mind crumbles apart.

My ribs collapse, the air runs out, and the weight of the earth presses against me. Once again, tectonic plates seem to shift. But this time, I understand what I had failed to see.

Do you remember? I think I hear Myna’s muffled voice, but it could be my imagination. Do you remember what it's like to be free?

The raging of the earth dies away. The whispers stop. Everything falls silent.

I do remember. Me, laughing alongside kids in my class, who surprisingly came to appreciate my quip remarks. My father swinging me around on the tire swing, promising me he would be a better father than he was a husband. The warmth of the sun on my face as I climbed trees with Myna, shakily reaching for the next branch, boldly leaping up to touch the sky.

I remember what it's like to be weightless. Worthy. Unashamed.

As I suffocate for a second time, the earth gently rises and falls. Its heat no longer burns, but soothes. It takes away the disdainful voices. It takes away the picture of my father’s rasping voice. It takes away the ache in my chest, cracks open the heart that never knew how to properly beat.

I die within the earth’s embrace, and I can finally rest.

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sinkholes

tethers.

[catharsis]

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cortex collective