The ground here is sour, scorched earth, and cursed dirt. It brings forth monsters and feasts on holy grief.
It's a place where miracles happen.
Sweat soaks her hairline. Her white tank top twists around her torso, rust stained at the bottom and loose fitted at the top. Her stomach muscles ache and her fingers cramp, but her shovel spears the ground again and again and again, hitting rocks, throwing small sparks when she shoves hard enough. She throws them over her shoulder with bruised and battered hands. She cleans the blood off with her tongue.
A tattered blue tarp lays beside her, fluttering in the warm breeze. She gently, lovingly, folds the ends down, places small rocks around the edges to keep prying eyes away.
The whispers are silent, finally, weary of trying to salvage what's left of right and wrong in the blank spaces of her mind. Not that she was listening to them anyway.
When the hole is deep enough, wide enough, she pulls the tarp to the edge of it and gives it a goodbye kiss before rolling it into the ground. She buries it, erects a small statue of rocks on it.
Claire slaps at a fly hovering around her left ear.