Content warning: suicide
The unknown man lies dead in the barn for three days, and on the fourth we bury him. We tried to bury him before but had to wait, the ground was so hard. Gunne, who tried to dig the plot in the cemetery down the road, says it was like trying to break ice with a toothpick.
So we wait until the March thaw frees the ground enough to dig up cold earth for a resting place. We wanted to do everything right, lay him there with all the rites and prayers and everything, as if he had been our own dear brother.
The second night, the air is cool and clean, blowing in from the South, where they have been having summer rains already. The icicles hanging from the rafters and windowsills are dripping and falling one after the other to the ground, to melt and vanish forever. The sky is dark with storm clouds, gathered like a shawl over the horizon, and the wind smells sweet like wet earth and honeysuckle. The house behind me is alight and glowing and filled with carefree laughter; it is easy to forget worries over a game of cards. But I step outside, barefoot on the ice-slivered ground, and go to see the body.
Mother told me not to, but I can’t help it. I want to see for myself. Even on a farm, with farm animals; sick cows, fatted pigs and hens, sheep ready to butcher and sell, it is my first brush with death. Farm animals don’t die; they have always been meant to die and so their ending is just… closure. Attaching myself to each dying animal would mean constant heartbreak, an unlivable life. And if I tried to stop the butcher, we would starve.
But this is different. I tuck my head down to my collarbone and skip quickly across the yard. There is some soft, frightening mystery hanging around the barn, floating on the sweet southern wind. The sun is almost gone: its last red rays are cast across the Nebraska plains and touch on solitary scraggly trees and slanted, wind-tormented barns, like a man caressing the face of his lover.
Silently, like the ruffle of wind on skin, I slide back the red door and slip inside. I stand alone with my back up against the wood, taking in the musty smell of straw and animal cud and rusty farm tools. And there’s another smell too, held back by the dry cold still hanging relentlessly in the air. I have my brown cotton dress on, with my brother’s trousers on underneath, and a green wool sweater over it all, and still shiver like a marigold in the wind. I tell myself it’s just from the cold.
I creep forward with my hands over my mouth. I’m barefoot and sidestep the dark steaming piles littering the ground, making my way slowly and fearfully across the center barn room to the other end, where something small and dark is lying quietly on a bench. My heart pounds in my ears and each step is hesitant, each step is fought in my head before I take it; to go forward, or to go back. Forward or back. I go forward and stand a few feet away from the body.
The man -- I have to remind myself it’s a man, not just a body -- is small and wiry, with skin roughened by wind and work and crusted with black blood -- And I think to myself that he looks like a cowboy, a man who rides the dusty Texan plains and squints into the sun.
We do not know this man. Uncle Halvor speculates he is a farmer, like us; living with his family on vast, lonely land, like us; who kissed his wife goodbye and ruffled his son’s hair and walked away across the Nebraska pastures until he couldn’t see anything but land, dead land, arid lonely land; and walked until he came across a shelter, our red cow barn, and pulled out the pistol from his belt. At this point while Halvor was talking, sitting on Grandmother’s ottoman in our warm living room, my twin and I put our hands over our ears and ran upstairs.
The man’s moustache is dry and clumped with the same color that spatters his clothes and the side of his head. His eyes are shut but he doesn’t look at peace. He looks tired and tormented, as he probably did in life; his body is twisted with rigor mortis, colored pale purple and blue, and when I see this I choke on my own bile and run away, unable to look death in the face. I hide behind the house, taking deep breaths and pressing my palms into my eyes until the lump in my throat dissipates and my shoulders stop shaking. I pull my tearstained palms away and think for a second, stricken, that they are covered in blood. I let out a cry, a guttural scream, before I see it’s nothing, just the moonlight in the shadows, and press my hands over my trembling lips. Where is God? I think. Frozen to the dirt barn floor like a pool of blood, something else inside me answers. I close my eyes and wish I were dead.
Uncle Halvor and my brother Ben find me outside half an hour later, with marked cards in their pockets and worry in their eyes. The wind has turned cold now and curls around my bare feet and ruffles their hair as they stand over me, scolding and laughing and asking where I was.
I tell them and they take me by the arms and bring me gently inside.
When Ben and Halvor and I come in, we find only women inside. Everyone else, and Mother, is searching for me outside. Grandmother is sitting alone with a book in her lap by the kitchen door, biting her nails; Yelina plays with baby Josef on the floor by the stove; and Hella washes dishes. When Hella sees me she screams “Aundy!” and everyone looks up as she runs from the warm, bright spot by the stove and throws her arms around my shaking body and sobs with me. It is warm in the house but I am cold, and I stand there in the living room and rock and rock and cry and cry in Hella’s arms, whispering that I am afraid, so very very afraid.
⏳
We decided, after Grandmother called the superintendent in town, to bury him in the Norwegian graveyard twelve miles across the snow-plaited fields. Superstition dictated that a suicide must be buried at the crossroads, but Grandmother and my aunts could not bear to subject the unknown man to such humiliation. They negotiated a corner plot -- reserved for unknown corpses -- with the superintendent, and Yelina and Uncle Aron made a small wooden cross.
It rains during the funeral, not a storm, just a gentle shower. I stood looking down at the small black hole with my heart aching inside my ribcage as water poured down my hair and dripped onto my skin. It was like the whole earth was mourning with me. Once the service was over and we walked home along the warm, damp roads, I felt something fill me: a hand on my back, a smile, a beam of light. Small flowers, marigolds, foxgloves, and bluebonnets, lined the warm road and seemed to call Look, look at us. The earth was smiling at me; God himself, no longer frozen to the ground, was walking along the road with me, borne by fresh winds, as the sun shone through the blurry horizon after the rain.
⏳
A few weeks after, Aundy found her twin standing on top of the barn, barefoot with her green summer dress swinging in the spring breeze. She climbed up the side as quickly as possible, her bare feet following the paths she and Hella had made as young children, breath moving in and out raggedly, calling “Hella!” urgently.
Aundy walked slowly and carefully along the slanted rooftop until she reached the motionless form of her sister and threw her arms around her and dragged her backward.
“What are you doing?” she screamed as she fought with Hella, who was biting and scratching and trying to get free and stand up again. They tussled for a minute, Aundy doing her best to keep them on the roof and keep her grip around her sister, both panting desperately, each fighting for their own reasons.
Hella kneed her in the stomach. With a grunt Aundy released her, but instead of standing and crawling to the edge again, Hella crumpled and began to cry. “What, what?” Aundy could only beg. “What? Tell me what’s wrong, what are you doing, what is going on?”
Through her sobs Hella whispered, “I’m scared, I’m so scared. I can’t do it but I’m scared not to.”
Aundy didn’t know what to think or say or even how to breathe. She could only say, “Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t be afraid.”
“I saw him too,” Hella told her, lifting her big red tearstained eyes. Her face was swollen and tormented, like the unknown man’s face that March. “I saw him too and I got so scared. He looked unhappy, so unhappy and tired. He’s not -- ” She took a big, shaky breath -- “Not resting. Not at peace.”
Aundy looked out across the flat fields waving with wheat and corn, moving with the wind like the sea in a storm. She opened her mouth and shut it.
“But I’m scared,” Hella went on; “I don’t know what will happen when I die. I just don’t know. That scares me so much I want to die.” She let out a laugh, a giggle mixed with panicked tears. “I’m crazy. I know, I’m just crazy.”
“No you’re not.” Aundy was finally able to speak. She rubbed Hella’s shoulder and ran her fingers over her twin’s shining brown hair, which was tangled with wheat buds and tiny pink wildflowers and splinters from climbing up the side of the barn. Hella bent her head again and wiped her wet face with scraped and bloody hands. The wind on top of the barn was stronger than on the ground. It pulled and pushed at them, the warm summer wind, and the sun shone brightly down on their backs, burning their skin and hair. Everything was silent but for the rush of the wind and a distant hawk, screaming as he dove for prey.
“No you’re not. Don’t die. Live. You’ll see.” That was all she could say. “You’ll see. I did.”
Hella looked up at her again. Her chin and cheeks were light red from her scraped hands but there was something new shining in her eyes, something like the freedom of the diving hawk and the rustling wheat and the sleepy gleam in baby Josef’s eyes. “You did?”
Aundy nodded. “Look, I see God.” She raised her arm and pointed across the fields, warm in the bright noon sun, awash in soft winds. There were small bluebells, marigolds, sunflowers, and Indian paintbrushes growing between the fence stiles and along the road. In the big wide pastures, a group of cows ambled toward a pond, protecting a calf that skipped along happily and nosed the ant piles and snake holes. And the tree line in the distance was blurred by the sun, as if drawn by pencil, stirred by far away winds. “Look, I see God.”
And Hella looked, and did not ask “Where?”
⏳
Years afterward, when the days of long, open fields were over, and the bluish-green grass had been ploughed under until it had almost disappeared from the flat prairie; when fences ran around the land like calves skittering around a heifer’s ankles and roads no longer went around like free winds but followed directions and maps, the unknown man’s grave was still there, with a leaning fence around it, and an unpainted wooden cross. Beyond the Norwegian graveyard, long left to rest, the road from the north curved a little to the west there, and the road from the east swung out to the south, so that the edges of the grave, laying at the very corner of the yard, was always untouched, with its tall bluish grass never mowed, like an island by the road. At dusk, under an old moon or the clear evening star and bright, ever-changing night sky, the dusty roads used to look like soft brown rivers flowing past it.
Aundy never walked past the grave without emotion, and in all Nebraska it was the place most precious to her. She loved the simple superstition that had put the grave there, a lighthouse for those left behind, and she loved the peace it had given her, the peace of death and of life together -- that of the tenderly moving roads along which old-fashioned cars or wagons rattled during warm, lush afternoons. She knew in her heart that a tired, homeward-bound driver never passed the small corner plot with the unpainted cross without wishing peace to the sleeper beneath.
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138 comments
Hi Zilla. I was just wondering, how come you don't write stories on Reedsy anymore. Your stories are some of my very favorites. There was one story you wrote a long time ago about a girl in a yellow dress and a man. I can't find it now. But anyways, how come you don't post stories on here anymore?
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Hey Ava! Thanks for your comment. I don't remember the title but I do recall something about a yellow dress and a man. Was there a balloon involved, maybe? It's been a while. I don't post 1) I have little time for anything outside of academics and music, and a bit of social life and 2) $5 entry fee haha. But as I told Thom just now, I have two stories from August that I'm thinking of posting just to get critiques.
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I just signed up and this is the first story I read. It definitely did not disappoint, it was really heart-wrenching!
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This is really good. Vivid and heartwrenching and melancholy. I'm new to the site, and now I know where the bar is set. Thank you for setting it so high.
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I'm a big fan of intentionally interesting point of view, so I was excited to see just about anything for this prompt-- and this delivered! Excellent interpretation with some great dark themes. (And, secretly, I'm very happy to know I'm not the only one who uses emoji as story dividers.)
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I read the prompt after the story and it immediately made more sense to me, great job, it must have been difficult to write ! I really loved the sweetness of the twins, they felt real and so deep in a few words. This truly captures what if feels like to be lost. I'm at loss of words, what an amazing story !
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Hii Zilla! It's been so longg, how are you??
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Hi Laiba! I've been doing well. The flowers are blooming and we had a dance on Easter night. I'm happy. How are you? ❤️
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That's good to hear :))~ Are you planning on planting anything this spring? I'm super busy with studying for finals and exams, but I'm good!!~~
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I would like to beign by stateing that I believe there are two kinds of great writers in the world. There are those who tell wonderful stories and there are those who yeald the English language as though it were a symphony orchestra. On very rare occurances, an author is both. When I read this line:"The sun is almost gone: its last red rays are cast across the Nebraska plains and touch on solitary scraggly trees and slanted, wind-tormented barns, like a man caressing the face of his lover." I was reminded of Pat Conroy, who is one I consider...
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Thank you so much, Renee. I really appreciate your comment :)
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I loved your courage in tackling a hard subject in your story. I believe you handled it very well. Thank you for sharing this story with all of us. I think your story is a great example of immersive storytelling and emotional connection.
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Thank you, Kate! It was a delicate theme, so I tried to make the story delicate too. I had been fascinated with the balance between sorrow and glory/light and put a bit of that in, as well :)
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Hi, Zilla. More stories, please. Thanks.
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Hi, Zilla. New story sometime soon, yeah? Great! Can't wait to read it. Hope you're doing well.
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I liked your story overall and hope you become an astounding writer. If possible could you help me out with writing since I aspire to be one. If so please email my professional account: zackarygreer2018@gmail.com
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Hi Zackary! I'd love to help, but no offense, your profile seems a bit suspicious. Not suspicious, but not entirely trustworthy. No comments but this one, and no stories. Submit a few stories under the free option, maybe ask for critique from others, and in a bit I'll send you my email address and you can message me :)
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“Look, I see God.” And Hella looked, and did not ask “Where?” Beautiful, breathtaking- You have such a gift! I love the simplicity, the savoring of each moment while tackling such complex feelings and ideas. Thank you for sharing.
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Erin, I'm so happy you loved my work. Thank you for your comment!
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There is a reason you're number one. You write like this. Points can't describe the beauty and terror of what I just read, the pain and fear and grief and death all over it. This was insane. I don't think I could do it in a month, nevermind a week! I have no feedback that it's "wow, this blew my mind." You rock. Keep writing!
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Thank you so much, Opal! Consistent writing with kind feedback from Reeders really helped me. And don't ever stop reading! Happy new year 😘
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Thanks! (You may have known me as Em or Emerald or Aaron Burr's umbrella in the past, if you didn't recognize me)
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Hey Zilla! How are you doing? I haven't checked on your stories in a while, sorry.
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Hi Blix! Merry Christmas! I'm great, reading through my new books and looking forward to our Christmastide dance. How about you?
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Hey! Sorry for the late response. How many books have you written so far? Merry late Christmas and Happy New Year! I'm doing good. Do you think 2022 will be a better year?
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Don't even ask. A third of one? I AM working on the idea for a novel after I finish my current one. Phrases and themes come at me in the middle of the night and I'm getting excited. I'm glad you're doing well! How's school? Swimming? Reading and writing? I'm no forecaster. This is my favorite summary of 2021 and 2022: www.wsj.com/articles/got-a-lot-right-2021-but-not-biden-approval-trump-riot-jan-6-committee-predictions-2022-nfl-mlb-covid-omicron-roe-wade-midterms-11640807077 I hope it'll be better. I think things will return to normal ev...
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Hallo! Nice to hear you writing a ton of novels! My Christmas break just ended from school and now I have to get up early :( I like the summary too! It's very well written in my opinion. I hope things will return to normal too! I honestly hate masks because when I'm exercises I'm just suffocating but I don't want to get covid or anything so I just keep it on haha. Happy to hear the regulations and economic troubles are barely there! (I think that's a good thing? I don't know what that is-)
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I liked the imagery. "the ice-slivered ground" - anyone who grew up in the northern US or Canada would know what that looks and feels like.
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Hey! How are you? I love this story. Will email you about it later! <33
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Wonderful! How are you?
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Hey Zilla "The Unknown" interested me because it was a clear and constant reminder to the reader throughout the story about the immortal truth-- "Man is mortal" when fear of death agonized among the inhabitants of Nebraska. Also, I liked the mental satisfaction-- the self satisfaction, Aundy achieved in the end(the most felt last paragraph) that the dead soul that once seemed tired, unhappy and tormented, at least now is RESTING IN PEACE----FOREVER,, UNTOUCHED, UNAFFECTED!!
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Thanks, Sofia :). I wanted to convey the peace offered by Christ in death, though I knew mentioning the word Christ in the story would lose some people and I would not be able to convey that meaning. So I did my best without the explicit word Christ. My feelings on death are parallel to Paul's: in Philippians he writes how he is ambivalent -- he wants to die and be with Christ, and yet he knows that if he stays on earth he is of use to the church.
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please check out my new story 🤍 i worked really hard on it
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Reminded me a bit of Faulkner.
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Wow. As someone who has struggled/still struggles with scuicide I thought it was going to be a huge thing that took me out of the story but the way that you wrote this story still let me enjoy this world and this tale and not think about my personal demons. Thank you. Not a lot of people can do that. I would find it a great personal honor if you were to look at my content and give me some crituques and tell me how I can make my stories better. Again, thank you Zilla for this beautiful story. -Cooper A
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Cooper, thank you so much for your comment. I'm happy I was able to touch you with my story. I would love to read and critique your story. Blessings ❤️
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