In Boot Hill, Today's Feed

I died in 1814. I continue to occupy my body, but my soul is gone. My soul is buried in the cold ground with the rest of my family, on a plantation in Virginia. My body now lives in New York, even though my life had ended time continued on as if nothing had happened.

Laying in my room the distant clock tower signaled the hour. I heard murmured voices then silence. Now was my chance. I slipped out of bed and made myself look presentable. The hour was near. I quickly grabbed an old worn cloak I had taken from the maid. I wrapped the cloak around my body. I couldn’t risk the door. I would have to go out the window. It would be an easy task. At this point I had become an expert.

I peak around the gates to the street. The street traffic was light at this late hour. I slipped into the street and hurried on my way. I was not to be seen by anyone who could recognize me. My body had a job to do before I could join my soul.

I reached the square. It was dark. I had no lantern for a good reason. Light attracted others. The people I waited for would find me they always did. I stepped behind the statue and waited. “Thomas, Robert, Elizabeth, Edward, Charlotte, Margaret and William” I said in a light whisper.

The cold bit through the night air. I could see the frost on my cloak, shoes and dress. It didn’t bother me one of the blessing of having no soul, nothing could hurt me. I am numb to life.

“Virginia” I heard whispered in the wind

I turned around. The shadow stood between the two trees and disappeared. There was no time to waste. I placed the papers on the ground. I set a brick from behind the stature over the papers. I quietly walked away. This was my routine, my only purpose, my mission.

The clock in the square chimed at the top of the hour. I turned to look at the face. Even a clock has a face, but in the darkness the clock had a voice but no face. I live in darkness there is no light illuminated from my soul. But like the clock I had a voice and I was using it for the greater good.

On the walk home I began thinking of time. People say it heals all wounds? Time doesn’t heal, it might drive you crazy or make you forget, but it doesn’t heal.

I noticed the black gate and brick walk way. I was home. I had set the motions into play now it was time for me to plan my next move.

Written by: Collette Cottingham; Boot Hill

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