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Here lies Michael Rogers…
Thats a joke. He’s not dead—yet. Instead, he’s stuck working a part-time, soul-crushingly shitty job at the cemetery. His tasks? Scrubbing moss off graves, picking up garbage, and making sure no one desecrates the place. Conformist stuff. At least the dead have the decency to stay quiet, unlike the living idiots Michael has to endure daily in South Park.
The only thing keeping him from tossing himself into one of these graves is that his friends tag along. It’s not like they’re here to help or anything, but their presence makes the suffocating 9-to-5 conformist hell a little more tolerable.
“Does anyone here have a lighter?” Henrietta drawled, perched dramatically on a bench like she was posing for an album cover. Michael, bent over scrubbing moss off a headstone, didn’t even bother looking up.
“Nooooo…” he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm, as he tossed a lighter over his shoulder. It smacked her thigh before clattering onto the bench. She caught it and sparked up a cigarette without so much as a thank-you.
Pete hummed some melancholic tune as Henrietta lit his cigarette too. He drifted over to loom behind Michael, arms crossed like he was contemplating life’s futility.
“This is laaaaammmeeeee…” Firkle groaned from the bench he was sharing with Henrietta, flipping a pocketknife in his hand like he was trying to summon Satan through sheer boredom. “Michael, when do you get off work?”
Michael shot him a glare, the kind that could wilt a bouquet of plastic roses. Firkle groaned louder, flopping onto his back dramatically. Henrietta reached over to pat him on the head like a petulant child.
“You know what? Firkle’s right,” she said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “How long until your stupid shift ends? This place reeks of capitalist oppression and rotting flesh.”
“You guys are so impatient,” Michael grumbled, standing up and stretching like the weight of existence itself was crushing his spine. He glanced at his cheap watch. “But fine. Ten minutes. I just have to clean one more grave. Try not to die of boredom in the meantime.”
With that, he trudged toward the next grave.
It was… different.
Unlike the rows of plain, conformist crosses dotting the cemetery, this headstone was shaped like a heart. Michael scoffed, rolling his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out.
“Figures. Hearts are just a lie perpetuated by people who can’t handle the grotesque beauty of real organs,” he muttered, running a cigarette-stained hand over the stone. “And they’re corny as hell.”
The engraving was barely visible beneath layers of moss, but Michael knelt down and scrubbed at it anyway. Gradually, the name and dates came into view.
1990–2006.
“Sixteen,” he murmured, frowning slightly. He didn’t know why, but something about it felt… off. Like this grave had been waiting for him specifically.
“Hey, did any of you guys know some chick named…” Michael paused, scrubbing harder until the name became fully legible. “Mallory Sinclair? She would’ve been, like, a few years older than us.”
Pete leaned over, squinting at the name. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Henrietta tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I mean, it sounds familiar… but no.”
Firkle, now hunched over and stabbing the bench with his pocketknife, muttered, “If she died in 2006, she’s probably just another soulless Myspace emo. Not our problem.” due to this comment Pete gave Firkle a little swat at the head.
Michael stood up, brushing dirt off his knees. The grave still felt weirdly significant, but he shoved the thought aside. Dead people were just… dead. Nothing poetic about it.
“Whatever,” he grumbled, yanking his cane from Pete’s hands, who was holding it for him. “I’m done. Where are we going now?”
The goths exchanged glances. In unison, they muttered the only answer that made sense.
“Denny’s.”
And just like that, they trudged off together into the gloomy afternoon, leaving behind the graveyard and all its creeping shadows. But Michael couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder one last time at the heart-shaped headstone.