Chapter Text
The boy is only seven years old, and the coffin that holds his body is unnaturally small, a dark wood box barely big enough to fit a dog.
John Chambers digs the grave with a well-used shovel and is happy for a fleeting, gross moment that he only has to make a hole one half the usual size. His calloused hands burn after a long day and his bones feel old and weary in a way that a good night’s sleep won’t cure. He yearns for home and a glass of whiskey.
He eats his lunch during the service, watching from his regular spot as a parade of sleek black cars wind their way through the graveyard, the mourners exiting in elegant, sensible leather shoes to stand sentinel over the grave. Odd one, this service, he thinks to himself. Usually when a child dies there is a lot more weeping and wailing.
Now, there is a scattered collection of people who seem only present for posterity, eyes vacant, and expressions distant and removed. Closer to the grave, in the space reserved for family, stands a stone-faced man holding the collar of an ugly fat boy who looks bored and a blond woman with cheek and jaw pale and sharp like cut glass. There are no tears for the tiny coffin and the little boy hidden inside. A sad shame, really.
The rain starts before the service is finished, sending most of the gathered crows fluttering off to their cars for shelter. Only the woman remains and the soft-faced preacher who looks like his heart is broken in two. John smokes a damp cigarette as he shovels earth over the lowered casket, the soil falling on wood in a cascade of final, resolute thumps.
The preacher shuts his Bible and speaks the final words of the service with his eyes closed, prayer ringing through the quiet of the cemetery and the soft fall of rain.
For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.
John glances up and can see the woman’s face crack, and for a moment he thinks she might finally cry.
Instead, she smiles.
Not a smile of comfort with the thought of a young life finally free of pain and resting easy in the loving arms of God. No, a smile both strange and horrible that cuts John down to his very bones.
He finishes filling the hole as quickly as he can and feels something in his chest ease when the woman finally turns and walks away, the black shape of her umbrella like a vulture’s wing cutting beneath the trees.
As he pats down the dirt and replaces the sod, he looks at the freshly carved name on the tombstone and mutters,
“Maybe you’re better off where you are now, Charles Francis Xavier.”
He scrounges around on the ground until he finds a smooth stone and places it on top of Charles’ grave, an old tradition he’d given up years ago after a life spent too often in cemeteries. After a while a gravedigger stops caring about the dead. There is always another death. Another body to be planted. Circle of life, et cetera.
He grabs his shovel and stands, knees cracking, and decides to head home early.
He needs that glass of whiskey badly.