Mass Grave

The rooster’s jarring crow announced dawn. Alice pressed her knuckles against the table’s knotted wood and pushed herself to her feet. She was tired. Exhausted. Her body felt like lead. Feeling far older than her forty-two years, she shuffled to the kitchen window and peered out at a morning which had been a long time coming. The sky was soft, gentle, painted in mauve and pale pink strokes. It bore no knowledge of the previous night’s anguish.
‘It’s a beautiful day,’ she said. ‘Maybe that’s a sign we did the right thing. What do you think, Thomas?’ She turned to gauge her husband’s reaction.
Thomas rolled the empty whisky glass around in his hand. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
A muffled sob from above drew his eyes to the ceiling.
‘She took it hard,’ Alice murmured. ‘All the young ones in the village did.’
‘They’ll get over it … in time. One day they’ll thank us for what we’ve done. History will show we were right.’
‘How many have said that before?’ Alice whispered, her shoulders heavy, drooping.
‘We had to take back control. What else could we do?’ Thomas placed the glass on the table and rubbed his cheeks.
The sun’s rays crept across the yard to the field beyond. Alice watched as they swept over the mound of freshly turned red earth, illuminating their night’s endeavours.
‘What time is it?’ Thomas’s hand reached for his phone. It wasn’t there. It was in the pit with everyone else’s mobile devices.