The Uniformity of Otherness

By Iris Pritchard and Grace Atkin

Peter Grayson, a friend to all, has died at the age of 27. His funeral was a closed casket held at St. Methodist Church last Friday. He will be remembered for his contributions to the community, especially his patronage to The Cause.

Rickety rows of houses sit perched atop the mountain tops of my small town. This town was not a quiet one–people in The Cause often danced and sung well into the night atop shattered glass of beer bottles broken earlier by clumsy drunks. But when the morning came, the glass was swept up and the people of The Cause returned to their rigid selves.

The Church is what governs life here, but even the strongest held convictions can be broken with a few drinks. The people of The Cause tended to push the boundaries of morality–push at the best of times and disregard at the worst. 

Peter Grayson came back into my life through our local paper’s obituary section. It’s been years since I thought about him, let alone saw him. Regardless, I am shocked. I never really knew Grayson, only within school. A good kid. Bold and bright. He never seemed careless with his life–always avoiding impurities–preservatives–prioritizing the health of his future as if nothing else had a say. He was often described as an angel amongst men–not a prince, but one of God’s messengers. The people of The Cause propagated the nickname to the point where if someone referred to “the angelic boy,” everyone knew it was Grayson. I have no clue why he died, nor how–my mind tries to carry me beyond what I can comprehend. He became obsessed with the church, The Cause. I wonder if it spawned too many immoralities within his blood. 

An odd picture accompanies the obituary. I had always attributed Grayson’s angelicness to his eyes, with something illicit that drew you in, yet in this photo, they were heavy with solitude, filled with emptiness. He looks hollow–as if he was dead when the photo was taken.

The air is cold from outside my house, a crispness I’m sure he’ll miss. When was the last time he walked these streets? Did he ever take the same path I do to get to work? It’s hard remembering him as the same creature I am–now that our planes of existence cease to cross. 

The walk to work is as dull as ever, and the weather hasn’t changed for weeks. Gloomy clouds have plagued us since September, an inconvenience for our gardens. Now they ache for the summer sunlight they once had, possibly praying to our very own church like everyone else. The patron’s prayers are typically answered. Maybe the plants are next. 

I work at the cemetery, which isn’t as lonely as one would think. Understanding how religious this town is, it’s comforting knowing I’m surrounded by God’s best patrons while working. I hope they appreciate my dedication to their above-ground remains. Grass is quick to grow over, moss even faster, and I’d hate to see their proof of existence washed away by nature’s own will. 

The grass seems less lively than usual, as if the sun has been lacking for years, not weeks; I never noticed until now. When searching for Grayson’s new stone, it occurred to me how the grass surrounding it is bright, almost embracing his soul. He faces a different direction from the others, away from the sunset. I don’t know why. 

Here lies Peter Grayson, blessed with his sacrifices to The Cause. 

With religious uniformity above all else, a grave of the town’s most beloved man turned differently must have more significance than what meets the eye. Even his epitaph stands out as the only one within the cemetery. Why is that only he’s commemorated? I dust off his grave out of respect, soon to be trumped with confusion as the weight of his otherness. 

Repetition has always been a comforting thing to me. I’ve had the same job for ten years, and the same routine for just as long. I’ve lived in the same house, talked to the same people, and attended church on the same day. Never in ten years have I taken a wrong turn on my walk home; never have I been at the church on a Thursday evening. I repeat these three sentences in my mind as I stare up at the church. Even from the outside, I can hear the angelic voices of the choir, singing like liquid velvet. Confused, I turn to walk home, but the sound never seems to fade, even as I walk back across town. As I continue printing the dirt with my boot, the chorus finds itself within my footprint, tracing each previous step until it reaches my body. It makes a home within me, settles in, and I’m forced to swallow a complaint for my own sake. 

I typically turn all of my lights off before leaving, which leaves me questioning why I see a dim yellow hue escaping from behind my curtains. As I approach closer, I notice a male figure moving throughout my living room, almost scrambling–cleaning–waiting for me to come home. 

I know it’s not a sin to be in another man’s home. I’ve come home before, finding members of The Cause repurposing my living room. 

Upon entering, my house is just as I left it: lights off, no one home, and I freeze as I notice no one home besides myself. I hesitate to walk further, and I remind myself there’s no one here. I cannot be in any danger. The sound of the silence amongst my wooden walls echoes louder with every second–I can still hear the choir, too, within my own head alongside the anxiety. Their voices are within me, harmonizing with the creeks of the house settling and the spirits walking upstairs. The silent ambience seems to be growing louder. I think that my next few minutes might be my last.