[ WP ] You suddenly realize your true purpose in life ... and it 's a duty you do n't want .

As long as I can remember, I ’ ve been digging holes. And I don ’ t just mean here at Brightwood, in the shade of the solemn oaks; my fascination with earthly excavation started young. At the tender age of two, I was already scraping craters out of our front lawn – something my father found amusing, despite my mother ’ s furious stares. He was a man of discovery, always tinkering away at something or other in his garage workshop, and I took to his example from the beginning. By age eleven, I had finished the tunnel system underneath our backyard, complete with sleeping quarters and a dining room. My father beamed as I rushed from entrance to exit, showing off my hard work. 
 
 That night, my mother put her foot down. 
 
 They shipped me off to Winghamton Prep shortly after that. Mother thought it would knock some sense into me – get me to see that there was more to life than digging holes – but she could not have been more wrong. Within six months, the groundskeepers were complaining of a gopher infestation; in a year, I ’ d turned the underside of Barclay Hall into a tunneled paradise. I heard my name whispered during lulls in lunchtime conversation: Gary Parsons, Master of the Underground. Everyone wanted to see my work. For the first time since the day I showed my father the house passages, I was happy. 
 
 The structural collapse of Barclay Hall put an end to that. 
 
 There was never supposed to be a party in the tunnels; the popular crowd took what they thought was theirs and paid the price. I watched from across the green, tears streaming down my face, as rescue workers combed the rubble for survivors. My world lay in ruins, my classmates buried forever in the halls of my design. 
 
 They sent me home after that, but nothing was ever quite the same. Every job I tried to hold down crumbled around me. Every place I stayed turned an angry eye toward me, waiting for the inevitable slip-up to confirm their suspicions. The only times I ever felt at home were in the mines, driving the hulking excavators, a wall of earth ahead and the disappointment of the world behind. 
 
 It wasn ’ t until I walked past the local cemetery I discovered my calling: neighborhood gravedigger. If nothing else, at least the dead would appreciate my craftsmanship. Each hole was unique – an afterlife signature – and I reveled in the feeling of a job well done with each passing. 
 
 They came for me one night, masks covering their faces and ropes taut in their angry fists. Even as they dragged me to the back of the graveyard, I knew their dark purpose. I had buried their sons and daughters; it was only fitting that I should suffer the same fate. 
 
 The shovel felt heavy in my hands. 
 
 The solemn oaks of Brightwood Cemetery looked on as I dug my last hole: my own. 
 
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