The First Step

Alexander paused slightly, taking in pungent smell of the gaseous mixture that circulated the area. It was quiet. But his thoughts roared loudly despite that. His life had been a living hell, he knew that all too well and yet he carried on anyways, the same mundane tasks that he did everyday, burying people and selling bodies was what he did and he was proud of it. To him, they seemed to unworthy to exist anyways, only those who had no place on Earth anymore ended up here, but his mother... His mum was far from unworthy, probably why she didn't get buried like the rest of them, but why did it still hurt?

They say that good people were buried here in the safety and glorious walls of the cemetery, and those who were evil were buried out there, in the un-blessed Earth. But who were they to say what or who was deemed evil or good? He believed those words were absolute bullshit. 'I would probably be buried out there' he thought, as that's what the people made him believe. The money he earned was nothing to scoff at however, for the fact that he had albinism he was doing well for himself, his needs always came first no matter what, he was happy? No.

The people believed his outlook to be a curse, and the fact that he was a Grave Keeper made everyone's theory's about the poor man travel even faster. However, when one would come to question the man about his job he would say, "It's just a money transaction after all. What's the difference?" and the people gasped loudly, at the thought of their bodies being nothing more than tools for money.

''The White Haired Monster, huh?'' He muttered the words others would say to him constantly under his breath as he approached the entryway, the letter gripped tightly, suitcase in the other hand, almost seemingly crumpled under his grasp. It was night of course, Alexander never liked the sun.

Good and evil was blurred, a theme that never had any true meaning in society that was repeatedly dictated over and over again, and yet he wondered if he was the true monster after all, he believed that his appearance caused all the problems, it was his fault for being born a monster.

He looked at the letter one last time with a small frown before slowly pushing open the manor doors in a cautious manner. 'Seems like I will find out...' The letter, the manor. Alexander thought that all his questions would be answered here, perhaps find some people like his mother who loved him regardless of the monster he was. Well, no use thinking about it. The only way to know is to move forward... And with that, he put his right foot in...

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''Hello?'' Alexander treaded indoors carefully, the manor was dusty, seemingly abandoned although the paint and fresh smell that the manor presented to him said a completely different story. ''I... Is anyone there? I got a letter?'' He called out again, recklessly, just like he always did. The manor was supposed to bring security and safety. Or so he thought, yet again he acted on impulse, going to a manor from a strange letter that arrived at his door with no name inscribed on the old looking piece of paper.

And yet, he felt drawn to it. It was dark, of course it was he came at midnight so if someone was here, they were probably already asleep. Alexander placed down the luggage swiftly and shoved the letter into his pocket, surprisingly it was still in one piece. Feeling up the walls in order to find some sort of light source. He always carried matches on him, for reasons unknown so once he felt the waxy presence of a candle, he removed it from its stand and ignited it, lifting up the light to see what was around him. All the chairs and items seemed vintage, old even and the very patterned yet bland design was evidence to that theory. There was a creak, and he flinched. All he could do at the time was leave or pick up the luggage and keep moving forward. He picked the latter. He assumed no one was here, although they may be upstairs, but he was too scared to go up in the dark. Most the people he buried had died from stupid deaths such as falling down the stairs at night or walking into holes in their house on the second floor, and he did not want to be one of them, who would? Imagine 'Death by stairs' being written on your gravestone. How pitiful. I guess his job had more use than just money, taught him how to not die like them, those worthless wastes of space whose only use was to give him breakfast in the morning through the money provided of their corpse.

Although he preferred the dark, it still did not stop the Grave Keeper from feeling a tad bit tired, and so he searched the bottom floor rooms for somewhere to sleep. But of course they (the beds) were all probably upstairs, so he picked the chair by the burnt out fire place. ''Fire...'' He quickly remembered the pitchforks and wails from his mother as the people attacked them, although they did nothing wrong or try to fight back. ''Not here...'' He muttered in a pained voice as he turned back through the door and decided to sleep in the hallway. Placing his luggage down and pulling out a blanket, just to close it again. The bag was his pillow, the blanket, a blanket of course.

He was now sleeping in a strangers home, he knew that all to well. And yet, he drifted off to sleep anyways, hoping that they would be able to understand why he did so.