Mortimer Collins went to sleep that night not to the unrelenting tick of his clock, but to the thought of death, and the overwhelming impression that he had forgotten something. The morbidity of his day was no more peculiar than any other, nor did it seem to carry with it any unusual undertones that presented themselves as significant. Why these prior brief hours deserved any particular scrutiny he could not say, and yet he could not get over the feeling that something had gone wrong. 

He was sure Margaret Abbey was pronounced dead at exactly 6:06pm, five nights earlier by a coroner Mortimer had no former acquaintance with. But his credentials seemed sound, and his personality seemed to fare well with the image Mortimer had laid out carefully for such a profession. Mortimer, being in like minded mortuary work, was certain he could detect mannerisms apt for dealing with the bloody. 
The man’s name was Damian Vernon. The only thing grimmer than his name was his baneful disposition that made it painfully obvious he was not suited for working with the living. The slight air of sadism that Mortimer sensed each time Vernon stroked Mrs. Abbey’s gaunt cadaver further solidified this in his mind. Each tap of his finger gave Mortimer the impression he wanted more than a touch, and would, with no less difficulty than a farmer reaping crops, tear her skin with the ring he wore on his left hand.  And why? Morbid curiosity. He did so enjoy the sound of ripping. It was why he got into such work, wasn't it? The scalpel seemed to fit so well in his hand, didn't it?
But he, like Mortimer, was a professional, and what they thought would stay in the bounds of their own minds only. Such fixations would only come out to play in the darkest recesses of their own secluded residences; “playing” with whom Mortimer could only assume were not willing houseguests. But he kept his mouth shut. His perceptive prodding at Damian Vernon’s character had no place in business interactions, which were meant to be brief, direct and respectful. Mortimer's father always said business was like a b****: beat it too much and it'll never come back. Yell at it, and it’ll bite you in the ass. But give it water and food, an’ you’ve got yourself a symbiotic relationship. Mortimer never truly understood what that meant until after his father passed (Brain hemorrhage一upon later reflection Mortimer wondered if that was what initiated his macabre fascination with death.)
Despite his lack of education, and ineloquent use of the English language Mortimer supposed his father was an unusually smart man; he could swindle a rich man poor with his wit and a couple of days, while still having the time to find a new broad who held his fancy. He may not have gotten his father's good looks, or cleverness, but he did benefit from years of free, profanity laden business advice.
Mortimer kept conversations with Mr. Vernon cordial, and business oriented. Asking only a few preliminary questions as to the current condition of the body (date since death, health of body, etc.) And for his own sake, how she had died. Of course this information was not necessary to perform his prescribed tasks as Partridge’s only mortician, but his inquisitive nature into the matters of the deceased  made cluelessness tormenting. He could always ask the family himself, but he always found conversing with the mourning highly trivial. To him their tears were nothing more than a liquefied manner in which time (and therefore money) could be stolen.
“Poison induced cardiac arrest,” Vernon replied, stepping back from the body as if to properly inspect his work. Mortimer was at first a bit taken aback, he had forgotten he had inquired into the death of Mrs. Abbey.
“I don’t suppose you heard about her in the papers?”  Not wanting to seem disinterested in his story Mortimer shook his head. But the mundanity of Vernon's voice pulled the words shut up into Mortimer's conscious.
“I would have thought as much. The Carolina rags are keepin’ it outta print. I suspect it’s her parent’s work; they’re so rich they could buy a boat every time it rains, and I bet could keep a story outta the papers with the snap of their fingers.” Pausing briefly before turning back to face the corpse Vernon continued. “She was married to a god-awful drunk. Benjamin, I think his name is. Rich, but he had a real mean temperament, would beat her almost every week when he was home一 Until one day I guess he got tired of her. Laced her OJ with industrial grade cyanide one morning. It was real obvious, the man was an idiot, the officials didn’t even call a doctor, just sent me over. Her heart wasn't beating, she was dead. The Pathologist didn’t even see a need for a medico-legal Autopsy, he says he never seen a more evident poisonin’. ”
“There was no doctor?”
“No sir,” offendedly the man placed his hands on his pudgy hips, his fat gut protruding like a sack of baker’s flour.  “There was no need. I checked her heart myself, I’m sure I felt nothin’. ”
“What about the autopsy? How is it possible one was not provided?” Mortimer questioned, further furrowing his brow.
“Well it ain’t like the pathologist and I did nothin’. He just skipped dissection. We tested the spit around her mouth, and it tested quite positive for cyanide. Neither him, or I thought it necessary to put her body through any more damage. You should thank me, you’ll be the one lookin’ at her.”
Mortimer was satisfied enough by his reasoning, although he wasn’t sure how thoroughly he trusted the man’s competency. But Mortimer agreed, Mrs. Abbey looked quite dead. The corners of her lips were white and puffy. And the bags under her eyes were a shade between dark violet and navy.
For a bit Mortimer paced around the small room, inspecting Mrs. Abbey’s body thoroughly. Mr. Vernon did the same, all the while fidgeting with his hands, as if he just couldn't figure out where he should put them or what he should do with them. He would occasionally take a stained pocket square out and dab his moistened forehead with it lightly. It was disturbingly hot out that day, and Mortimer was sure the man’s enormous weight did not help the situation.
“I was in that room, ya know,” Mr. Vernon’s deep, cawing voice interrupted the silence. “Broke dishes were cross the floor, her body was on the ground all wretched with pain. I never seen a place torn apart so completely before. Now that place was a real mess if I ever seen one.”
“Thus is the way of cyanide and murder,” Mortimer retorted dryly. He was about to continue to speak, but was not amused once he realised Vernon was no longer paying attention to him. He only stared longingly at Mrs. Abbey, her nude figure covered by a black tarp leaving only her arms, face and lower calves exposed.

By the time Mr. Vernon left, and the work day was over, the night’s blanketing darkness was already upon him. Mortimer drove home with only his dull headlights illuminating the way. The roads were desolate, and mortimer suspected most of the town was already falling deeply into the sandman’s grip. He imagined the children going to bed with thoughts of the wonderous games they would play the next day; but Mortimer was not so lucky to have such frivolous fantasies occupying his mind as he lay beneath the sheets. 
Among other perplexities, she was what he thought about before sleep. “Margaret Abbey, beloved daughter, wife, and friend.”
Beloved is the word they use when one dies alone.
Mortimer never married. He no more wanted his lineage carried on than a normal man wants his stifled. So he drew little attention to himself in regard to such foolish customs as romance and marriage. The other sex always seems so mystical until you work with them at the finish line, he thought. They usually come to him with bodies stiffened by rigor mortis, stinking of tache noire and purge fluid. Even the most beautiful bodies are subjected to the unknown horrors of death. He had seen husbands kill wives, friends kill friends, and mothers kill daughters. People can not be trusted. Their malevolent transparency can always be hidden beautifully behind pretty faces, and flirtatious outerwear. Beloved Vixens and bastards. Beloved Sons and daughters.
Beloved is a word of indifference, making it apt for people like Margaret Abbey. People that were not cared enough about.

The funeral was rushed by request of Victor Abbey, father of the deceased, as to “keep the wife’s hysteria at bay.” This left Mortimer barely the time to make acquaintance with Mrs. Abbey, as he normally did with the bodies before their earthly departure. Inquisitively prodding at their deformities; deciphering their life story like an archaeologist at an egyptian dig. He very much enjoyed investigating the residual scar tissue that sometimes resulted from a life well lived, and sometimes from the trials of ill timed death. In the short time he had with Mrs. Abbey, he could sense she had some story to tell. If antemortem scars could pay the bills, Mortimer would be dancing to Louis Armstrong with Rockefellers and Vanderbilts, while drinking a Southside down in Manhattan. But to Mortimer’s dismay, the misfortunes of his patient’s never ended up supplementing his bank account. However if they did, Mrs. Abbey would be his ticket to easy street.
She had character. You could tell she fought even after she had sipped from the suspiciously bitter orange juice, and convulsively fell to the floor in a fit of poisonous spasms.  Rigor mortis was not fully developed yet, nor had the skin around her nails and hair begun to recede (something notably mistaken for the growing of nails and hair.) Her sweet, soft features, although gaunt and bruised (and stained forever with the misery of abuse) still remained remarkably intact. Mortimer supposed in life she would have been quite a dime; not right for him of course, but he was certain she could have found a better man than the one that she pledged her ‘I do’s’ to.
Mortimer had made sure the coffin fitted her humble beauty. The exterior was plated in black lacquer; void of any floofy trimming and glamorous decorations. Her name was etched carefully in a silver panel on the top, done by a calligrapher the family had sent from Manhattan. And the interior was a simple bed of red Chinese silk. Before the burial Mortimer made sure to place her inside with care. This was a job he never let any of his apprentices perform. One of the last bits of advice Mortimer received from his father before his passing was If you’re in it for the long haul, you better make sure to finish the job yourself. You can’t trust another god-damned soul with the important things. And this, Mortimer was sure was an important thing.
Secretly Mortimer was happy the family had not wanted an embalming. He always felt the whole process was an unnecessary, and disrespectful invasion of the body. Although freely he would never admit this, it would hurt his business. In an embalming, he would pump the body with a horrific c***tail of chemicals (formaldehyde, methanol, glutaraldehyde, phenol,  etc.)  He was surprised they didn't glow after, they might as well have wandered into the siberian lab of a mad scientist. But he suspected the family did not care very much about this, and simply didn't care to preserve the gruesome corpse. There would be no open casket, and in fact the burial would be taking place an entire day before the funeral reception. It was not necessary to prolong decomposition, it was better just to move on.

The Abbeys had paid for a small spot in a local cemetery separated from the Family plot. The spot chosen was pleasant,  but no match for the grandiose range where an Abbey is usually entombed. Gated by sculpted iron over four generations earlier, the plot imposed itself like an imperial fortress over the rest of the loaded necropolis. Henry Abbey (the first Abbey to strike it rich on the railroad) forged the location from the hot Carolinian soil into a masterpiece, and a center of pride for the family. 
But of course Margaret Abbey was an embarrassment. An ink stain in the spotless Abbey lineage. Her mother had been a perfect wife, her grandmother before her even more so. But Margaret had not fulfilled her womanly duties (or so the story goes).  Mortimer was never sure why the blame was always placed so heavily on women. He thought it unfair Margaret was being punished for the sins of her husband, but it was unprofessional to confront a mourning family. He allowed himself to be convinced that she was someone to be forgotten (Margaret Abbey: beloved daughter, wife and friend.)
Margaret  Abbey: a lapse in pedigree.
Mortimer supposed more would show up the next day at the reception because only four people attended the burial ceremony, save Mortimer and a family priest. The four men wore almost identical suits, and had the same disingenuous look plastered to their solemn faces. Her casket shut for the last time. One yellow rose was clutched stiffly by her cadaverous hands (yellow always was her favorite color, it reminded her of the sunshine she always said). The four men stood straight faced as Mrs. Abbey was lowered into her eternal resting place. Darkness crept over the crest of her coffin; the shine of the lacquer evermore suffocated by the scrape of shovels and the blanketing dirt. The soft whispers of amen lingered in the still, bleak air. Stuck in an overbearing limbo that made itself evident on the land.
Margaret Abbey: Beloved  daughter, wife and friend.
It is said a person has three deaths. The first comes when your heart stops beating, and your cognition is extinguished like a candle in the rain―the first is rigid and scientific; what is normally associated with death. The second is when your body is consigned to the eternal grave―when your address is six feet deeper than anyone is willing to go. The first two are observable, and with the proper work, calculable. However, the third happens sometime in the future, and is relative to each person. The third is the last time your name is spoken. The last time you are remembered. The third is concluding;  you no longer even live in the minds of contemporary humans―you are ultimately gone.  Mortimer was sure Mrs. Abbey’s third death was soon upon them. The world would not have to wait much longer; the trash would be taken out quickly with little pushback.
Margaret Abbey: beloved Who?

The impersonality of the burial struck Mortimer as odd. None of the men seemed particularly distraught by the somber event that had taken place in front of them, and on more than one occasion had he found them checking their watches impatiently.  Mortimer knew only one of the men in attendance, Victor Abbey, and found it strange more people were not present. It seemed some of the others had the same thought because a stout man, approximately in his late 50’s approached Mr. Abbey; “Victor, where's the Misses?”
At this question Mr. Abbey straightened uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “She's―well―she's incapacitated at the moment. In complete hysterics, I thought it best if she just stayed home and rest.” It seemed the stout man approved of this response because he made no further inquiries into her absence.
Officious bastard, Mortimer thought. He knew no mother would willingly miss the funeral of their own flesh and blood, this was one thing he was sure of. What sort contentious man would keep a mother from her child? He only hoped she would be at the funeral the next day.

Although attendance far exceeded that of the burial, the reception was small. Mortimer always hated attending the funerals of his patients, to their friends and family he was an oddity; he was the man that worked with death. They feared him, as if he would spread his infectious plague of mortality. These people were particularly henneous however. Thinking that money equated to a deserved youthful eternity―that they were gods among mundane men. Mortimer grinned as he thought one day they would wake up to find they had another thing coming. He only hoped that on that day they would find their way to him. 
“Mr. Collins!” Victor Abbey strided over to Mortimer confidently. His expression was disconcertingly placid, as if he wasn’t quite sure weather to smile or frown.  “The reception was beautiful, my daughter would have loved it. I'm so glad you could make it this evening.”
Of course Mortimer had made it. It was his job, he was not some estranged acquaintance who happened to be in town that day. “I tried my best Mr. Abbey. Your daughter seems like she was a wonderful girl, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yes, she was. We will miss her everyday,” he looked down at his feet uncomfortably. This was the first sign of emotion Mortimer had seen from Mr. Abbey.
“I’m sorry to be questioning you on this somber day, but it seems to me your wife has missed both the burial and the reception. Is she okay?”
“Oh yes, she―well,  she seems to be a bit under the weather recently. It’s been awfully hot as of late, maybe it’s heat sickness.”
“I hope she gets better soon.” Officious bastard.
It looked as if Mr. Abbey was preparing to speak, but he was prematurely interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. A young boy whispered something Mortimer could not make out in his ear.
“Seems I must get going. Again, Mr. Collins the reception was beautiful.” With that he was off, the young boy following quickly behind. Something seemed off, Mortimer had seen something in Mr. Abbey that he was not used to seeing in the living: death. At least in Mr. Abbey’s case the fear of death, there was a specific sparkle to it.
Dazedly Mortimer stood there. The bustle of silhouettes clothed in black swerved around him like a pack children avoiding bees, or a murder of crows swooping apprehensively around headstones. He tried to listen to the commotion in the other room that Mr. Abbey had walked into, but the turbulence was disturbed by the crowds of people around Mortimer discussing the recent heat wave. Mortimer strained his ears, but it was no use.
He tried to get back to his duties; suppressing his ever burgeoning curiosity under a thick blanket masquerading itself as genuine interest in work. He cleared away unfinished, abandoned glasses of scotch and walked them to the kitchen. Bouquets of flowers that were beginning to look wilted were switched out for fresher ones, and he made sure to supplement the vases with yellow roses. Meanwhile he continued to keep close attention to the room, every so often he would hear incoherent yells. The other attendees began to take notice as well. The ruckus emanating from the large wooden door became almost impossible to miss. They, like Mortimer grew silent, listening, and trying to make sense of the noise. The yelling grew louder and more chaotic with each passing minute. 
“Mr. Collins! Mr. Collins! Please, you are needed sir!” the same server boy who had called upon Mr. Abbey had rushed out the wooden door once again. He had a glisten of urgency is his eyes that made Mortimer uneasy. “Please sir come! Mr. Abbey needs you,” his voice screeched as he grabbed Mortimer by the cuff and tugged him, like an owner leading his dog.
“What is it boy? What’s the matter?” the agitation in Mortimer's voice was evident.
“It’s Mrs. Abbey sir―the wife―She...” the boy was interrupted by the large door as they pushed through it.
There was a small group of people idling apprehensively around Mr. Abbey. His body was tensed as he pressed a phone to his ear, clutching the black handle as if it were the only thing keeping him alive. Beads of sweat began to collect in droplets around his hairline, and were threatening to drip down.
“Oh thank god! Mr. Collins you are here,” Mr. Abbey didn’t even turn to Mortimer as he spoke, his eyes were fixed on no particular place, but seemed to penetrate far beyond the room in which they were all standing. “It’s my wife―she’s hysterical, absolutely crazy! She got into my safe―she―she has my revolver. She’s going to do it! I know she will. ” His voice trailed off for a moment, he seemed as if he might faint but he managed to continue, “She says she needs to speak to you.” Mortimer watched as the man's hands shook, and his arm extended to give him the phone. “Here, please help her.”
Timidly Mortimer took the phone. Before he even raised it to his ear he could hear the wet sobs from the other end. Her desperate sorrow permeated the distance between them until it seemed her pain was right there with them.
Nervously Mortimer spoke; “Hello? Mrs. Abbey? It’s Mort―It’s Mr. Collins,” His voice shook with hesitant vibrato.
“She’s not dead! I know it! She didn’t die. I don’t know how but she didn’t die!” She blubbered into the phone. “Believe me! Believe me or―I’ll kill myself!”
“She was dead Mrs. Abbey! Margaret was dead, she had no heartbeat―she took in enough cyanide to stop an elephant’s heart!”
“No she wasn't! I’m her mother, I raised her. I know she didn’t die. Victor didn’t believe me, but you have to,” she managed to screech through her convulsive sobs.
“Mrs. Abbey you must calm down. Please put the gun away. Margaret is dead. Ask your husband Victor, he can attest to her state.”
“Exhume her! You buried her, and only you can undo it!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t do that. Victor will come home to you soon, just don’t do anything rash Mrs. Abbey,” Mortimer ran his hands through his thinning hair worriedly. She was going to kill herself. He knew he couldn’t talk her out of it. She was sure Margret was alive.
“I have the gun to my temple―exhume her!”
Mortimer took the phone off his ear, he turned to see Mr. Abbey staring at him with a look of complete terror. His nails chewed down to nubs. “She wants me to exhume the body,” Mortimer managed to sputter out.
“God dammit! Margaret was dead, why is she doing this?” Mortimer didn’t know, but he agreed that her ‘motherly intuition’ was as ill placed as a fish in the clouds. But a fish in the clouds doesn't end in suicide.
“Mr. Abbey what do you want me to do?”
“Let me talk to her again,” he grabbed the phone fearfully.
Mortimer watched the upheaval in stunned silence. It was like he was watching a trainwreck unfold right before him; but instead of iron carnage and fire, the end result would be a grieving mother with a bullet in her head. Mortimer felt as if he was in a crimson haze; as if he could see, and smell the blood of both Abbey women all around him. He let the illusion coagulate, and fester in the sweltering heat.
“Mr. Collins,” Mortimer was torn out of his strange delusion, and focused his attention on Mr. Abbey once more. “Do it―You must do it. You must exhume her. I’ll front the bill―She’s not changing her mind.”
“Are you sure? The cost will be extraordinary. There are also a lot―”
“Just do it,” the man snapped.

Even under the rushed circumstances it took over three hours before Mortimer’s ramshackle team, consisting of a local construction worker, and 5 funeral attendees, could start the exhumation. After Mortimer got together the equipment, and manpower needed he still had to wait for the proper paperwork from the state.
Once Mrs. Abbey heard there was going to be an exhumation the police were able to get the revolver away from her. Upon Mr. Abbey’s request they were to keep her on a suicide watch for the rest of the day, and as she insisted on being present during the disentombment, along with a large population of miscellaneous onlookers, there was also a crowd of policemen. Everyone, including the cops (even if they would not admit it) came to see if Mrs. Abbey’s sixth sense was accurate. They were excited to see if once the coffin was reopened Margaret Abbey would pop out like jack from his box. Certainly Mortimer had his fair share of curiosity, but he knew she was dead. Atleast he was fairly sure she was dead.
Although it was not considerable, the recent commotion gave him doubt. After all he had questioned the competency of the coroner, hadn’t he?
No, Mortimer was being ridiculous. His speculations were nothing more than such. They were deranged conspiracies placed in his head by an emotionally unstable woman, and held no more validity than the ramblings of a schizophrenic. She might as well have been telling him that the moon was a hologram, or that the Earth was flat. Mortimer continued reassuring himself as he sat down, suddenly realising how exhausted he was. He was grateful the sun was now masked by a thick layer of grey clouds threatening a mighty summer storm, the heat was getting a little much.
The crew was clearing away the headstone, as Mr. Abbey approached him. Mortimer, being so engulfed in watching the workers was quite surprised.
“Do you think she could be right? Do you think my daughter’s alive?―Did I bury my daughter alive?” Victor sat down, somehow seeming even more exhausted than Mortimer. Up until that moment he didn’t think that was possible.
“No sir, I don’t. That girl was as dead as a doornail―deader even,” Mortimer cringed at his tired attempt at humor, but Victor didn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah, good. I didn’t think so either,” he ran his hands through his hair, seemingly to rid himself of the demanding horrors of the day.  “You know Mortimer―can I call you Mortimer?” Even in such a vulnerable state, Victor still emanated a strong sense of ego. “I was never the best father. I always wanted a boy, I think I would have known how to raise a boy. But a girl?―No, that was a mystery. She was a mystery.” Victor didn’t look at Mortimer while he spoke, his eyes seemed to be focused on something in the distance, something non-existent like a phantom of memories. Victor wasn’t present in his body, his conscience was merely a blur of incoherent thoughts, formulated into semi-coherent strings of speech that was not directed at anyone in particular. Even if it seemed he was talking to Mortimer, he was talking to himself, and in a certain respect the world. “I wasn’t a good father, but I didn’t kill my daughter. It wasn’t my fault, it was his―her husband’s. He killed her. He killed her and she died―I didn’t let my daughter get buried alive.”
Something changed. It was the first time Mortimer found himself feeling an ounce of sympathy for the man. That officious bastard of a man. Mr. Abbey was a cold, domineering son of a b**** with a god complex that could fill a room, but that man was in true pain and he didn’t deserve it. Because Margaret was dead and Mortimer was sure of that, wasn’t he?
“Mr. Collins! Mr. Abbey! It’s almost out―we’ve almost got the coffin,” squaked a large dirty man. His face was covered in mud and dirt from the dig.
“Thank you sir,” Mortimer called back. “We’ll be over in a minute.”
Victor stared at his shoes. He had a look plastered to his face that conveyed pure, tormenting fear to such an extent that Mortimer was afraid for the man’s stability. He wasn’t sure how much a man's sanity could take in a day, but he knew Victor’s was at its brim. 
“Come sir, your wife will need you with her when they bring the body up,” Mortimer offered his hand to victor, who accepted the nicety shakily. As the man stood Mortimer couldn’t help the feeling of
intense sorrow that overtook him, but he knew Victor felt the same ten times over.
 
Mortimer, the Abbey’s, and two policeman stood at the forefront of the large group that had gathered to see what would happen. The remaining policeman began pushing the persistent onlookers back, giving the family (and Mortimer) their space. Mrs. Abbey clung to her husband, who gripped her hand tightly. But they were paying little attention to each other, and none to the pain they had caused each other only a few hours prior. Mrs. Abbey, who had only recently collected herself enough to stop crying, immediately broke down once again after she saw the shiny crest of her daughter's coffin appear over the torn mound of dirt lining the hole. Mr. Abbey, who had managed to hold back his tears throughout all the trials of the day looked as if he would soon break.
  They watched as the crew struggled to raise the large black entity from the location that was meant to be its final resting place. Inch by inch they began to see more of the shiny lacquer that was caked in the hot Carolinian soil, and with each new inch Mortimer grew more and more anxious. As the coffin thudded to the ground there was little impeding its loud, sickening sound as the entire crowd was in complete, uneasy silence.
Nobody moved for the first few minutes after the coffin had been unearthed. It was an ominous presence creating ripples of discomfort around the crowed. The workers who had dug, and pulled it out breathed heavily, but did not move in attempts to open the casket.
“My baby,”  Mrs. Abbey whispered to herself. The open crack those words formed in her lips were enough to allow the tears to flow freely inside her mouth in a disturbing tsunami of heartache that flooded her whole body. 
“M-Mortimer, can you help me with it?” Victor pleaded quietly.
Hesitantly, Mortimer obliged and they walked to opposite ends. Stepping up to the casket he was overtaken by a sea of acute, petrifying dread that swept over his body in one moment. It was like a great hawk had come and stolen him off the ground, but he doubted that would be any more terrifying.
His hands shook like a tree being ripped apart in a tornado as he gripped dirty casket. His fingers seemed to go dumb, and his conscious dulled into a disorienting high. Time slowed in a way Mortimer had never experienced before, until a single falling raindrop took ions before hitting the lacquer. The crowd of onlookers held their breath in frozen anticipation until their lungs screamed for air, but their minds ignored their pleas.
“Forgive me Father,” whispered Mortimer as they tugged upward, ripping the lid right off the coffin.

Upon later reflection, the one thing Mortimer would be able to remember most about the moment was the screams. The bloodcurdling screams that tore his eardrums like scissors through paper.
Mrs. Abbey tried to run to the casket, but she was held back by the policeman.
A thick putrid smell of iron permeated through the distraught, uproarious crowd who were being pushed back by swarms of police trying to keep order.
.
Her hands were bent back in agony. The tips of her fingers were covered in thick, merlot blood that filled the deep gashes of skin that were hacked away, and now stuck in chunks inside splintered holes within the lid. Almost all of her nails were embedded inside the wood of that lid. It was shredded with the deep gouge marks she had made. The corners of her mouth were pulled back into the painful grimace she had made when she suffocated to death. 
She was dead, as Mortimer suspected, but she had not started off that way.
“My Margret!―My baby!” Came the piercing, motherly cries, in between frenzied fits of uncontrollable sobbing.
Mortimer couldn’t move, and his vocal cords were petrified by a disgusting concoction of  unexplainable emotions.
Her lips had turned blue from asphyxiation but on first glance you couldn’t tell; her face was too painted with her own blood into a mosaic of death. The inside of the coffin was torn to shreds as she did anything possible to escape her underground hell. Mortimer supposed that the coffin had about 6 hours worth of air in it, and from the damage she made he could imagine she was awake for at least half of them. Meaning three hours of tumultuous pain, and ripping as she tried to free herself from a prison she knew she would never escape. She died with the most fear possible for a human to endure. She was, quite literally buried alive.
Mortimer watched as her father walked up to her corpse and picked up the disfigured rose that lied on her stomach. He tried to wash away the blood, but the yellow was stained by the dark, dried red. Its delicate petals were crushed, and bloodied, but still made it out in better condition than Margaret Abbey: Beloved victim of incompetence.
Eventually the police lost control of the crowds of people that surged around the mutilated body. Vigilante journalists took pictures of Margaret, and the family who were screaming for all the people to leave. Mortimer wanted to help them but he still stood there motionless, being pushed around helplessly by the rushing hordes, who were collecting around the casket.
That was the last time Mortimer ever felt the hot sting of tears across his cheeks, and the first time he ever felt the burgeoning need to drown his agony in whiskey.
Mortimer Collins: beloved Murderer.

It is said a person has three deaths, all of which come in a specified chronological order. But Margaret Abbey’s did not.
Mortimer Collins knew from the very beginning that something had gone wrong that day, although at the time, and for many years to come he couldn’t tell you what. But after decades of reflective contemplation he finally came to a legible conclusion; which he wrote down neatly in a letter addressed to anyone whose interest was peaked. It may have made his arthritis plagued hands sting in painful fatigue, but he wrote down all he could on the subject, leaving out no emotion or relevant details. Besides, tying the rope was far more trying on his old hands than holding a pen.
Although the years passed, and he made amends to the Abbeys, (who would eventually come to forgive him, and even let him into their close familial circle) he could never get over the guilt. His memory faded a bit, and he no longer heard the screaming before sleep each night, but he could never rid himself of that damned guilt. This was addressed clearly, and lengthily in his letter.
And when he died, slowly, as his lungs screamed for breath, and his fingers reached to grip the burning rope, he felt truly at peace. His last moments, like Margaret's were fraught with pain as the oxygen left his body, but all he could think about was the freedom he felt as he finally paid his due penance.
Mortimer’s third death came soon after, as he had no family, and no friends save Victor who died two years earlier of alcohol poisoning (just as alone as Mortimer.) His will was in perfect order, and his money was disbursed posthumously to his neighbors, none of whom he knew very well. His third death came upon the day of his funeral where his name was spoken for the last time by a local priest to a small congregation of men Mortimer had barely acquainted with. Among the attendees were his barber, dentist, and next door neighbor; a senile old man Mortimer had once lent flour to.
Mortimer was a truly beloved man.