Repose

   It was a crisp and sere November and the sky was a constant cinereal shade, with long ragged clouds that menaced overhead. Despite the numerous predictions of poor weather, it seldom did rain, save for the occasional downpour. Last night was such a night and the ground was moist and slick beneath my feet and the mud squelched lamely beneath the heels of my shoes.
   The country side was equally desolate as the sky; the trees, gnarled and twisted, were utterly bare of vegetation, not even the orange and amber leaves so associated with the season. The wind hissed lightly as it swept through the dry, scratchy branches. The lake that pitted the region was luridly beautiful, it's water lapping gently against the pebbled shore of gravel and a wind washed over it from it's surface, forcing me to tighten my waistcoat.
   I was not here for the sights, beautiful as they were.
  Rather, I was searching for something. I was here twenty years ago, on this exact same date, when they constructed a high, turreted vault for my late wife, Violet, and deposited her within. It had rained fiercely that day, as I remember, as if the sky dryads themselves were weeping at dear, sweet Violet's passing.
   She was such a beautiful thing, of porcelain skin and soft, tawny hair. Her face was most beautiful and was as if chiseled by the most masterful of sculptors, although many criticized her for appearing boyish. To think that she would come to love me, a lowly artist who worked with wallpapers, is nothing short of divine luck bestowed upon me by the heavens. She was a most agreeable creature, as well, well tempered and well mannered, polite and courteous, and also very witty, charming and a pleasure to be around. Frankly, with myself being disposed to frequent bouts of severe depression, I can safely say that without my Violet's companionship that I would have been in the ground by now.
   I crested a hill of wispy weeds and grass and, looking down about the valley and towards the opposite shore of the lake, I saw it, partially obscured by shore-rocks and small bushes long ripped bare. The vault that held my wife was a high, turreted thing, and had the look of a miniature castle. The one small window that was mounted high on the roof was sealed by tightly placed wrought irons bars that permitted thin slivers of daylight within. My heart sped up at the sight of the place and I clutched the wooden handle of my spade ever tightly, causing my knuckles to redden and hurt in protest. I slowly descended the hill, mud and slippery slope permitting, and crossed the gravel of the lake's shore towards the mausoleum.
  After Violet's death, I was besides myself with grief, rage and depression for several months; I rarely deigned to leave my home and I lived off the meager savings that I had horded in the hopes of getting her a proper betrothed ring rather than the flimsy piece of tin which was all I could afford. My social habits dwindled, I lost all contact with her family, having never replied to any of their letters, and I was slowly withering away. I spent close to fourteen years in such a fashion, until, one day, I was forced into the outside world because of the necessity of food. At the market, I saw what I was missing: sunshine, clean air and the gayety of life. I watched young children scamper about, laughing and rolling and dancing and jumping, and I vowed that I would do the same.
   The optimism lasted, surprisingly, several months. I was back to work and was drawing up several pieces which have since sold. It was not until the turning of the seasons that I began to return to the salty throes of depression. I missed Violet terribly and I found myself alone and truly friendless, the only people I spoke to were my employers, which was a strictly professional and demanding relationship, and the random passerby at the market for but a moment. During the night, I would wake up, screaming and crying for her, drenched with sweat and my own urine. I could not sleep, for my dreams were of her countenance plagued by maggots or the vague memories of our times together. After weeks of enduring this, I settled for visiting her grave to pay respects.
   I was at the door of the vault now, stained by the wind and rain that rose from the lake, age and moss. The handle was rung with a simple rusted lock and chain but I was no blacksmith. Normally, I would simply linger at the door, touching it lamely with my fingers for hours before finally departing but the need to see my Violet again was much stronger this year than any previous. So, rolling back the sleeves of my overcoat and hefting the spade up high with both arms, I brought the metal flat down on the lock, severing it open. The vault door did not budge until I pressed my weight into it. The interior was dark and very musty. The air was heavy with dust and soiled air that saw too little light and refreshment. Not too steps into the chamber did I see it, the very stone slab that contained my beloved's body within. I tossed the spade aside and I approached it slowly, with reverence almost, and rested my palms atop the slab's surface. A thrill jolted through my body, as if receiving a hug from someone you have not seen for ages, or discovering a love letter written for you. A flood of emotion rose within my bosom and I could not keep the tears from welling out of my eyes and I sank to my knees, hands still atop the slab and my head pressed against the stone.
   And for a fleeting second, I saw her again. The sun in her hair, her smile, her breasts. I tasted her skin upon my lips and I felt her warmth against my body. My nostrils filled with her scent. I rose to my feet and closed the door of the vault, killing the majority of the light that they grey November day permitted inside. I walked to the stone sarcophagus and pushed at the lid, hard. It groaned and ground against the stone rectangle that it sat atop until, at last, I mustered the strength to force it over the side. It hit the mausoleum's floor with a loud bang. Dust burst forth from the innards of the sarcophagus. I bent over and peered inside.
   The corpse was brown and dessicated, little more than wispy left over of hairs and bones. I wretched at first at the stench of it but then I saw her again, in all her beauty, with her chiseled face, high breasts and tawny hair. I wrapped my fingers around her face and wept. She was so beautiful and it has been so long. I climbed into the sarcophagus to be with my love finally. My form cradled hers as a mother would a child.
   For the first time in two decades, I was truly happy, in serene repose with my beloved Violet.