I’ve made a huge mistake. It is now, as I stand over the twentieth grave I’ve dug today, that I realise I should have listened. There were so many people who told me not to do this. My mum. My dad. My aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters. My high school career counsellor. Melbourne cemeteries are a fun place to hang out, I told them all. Of course I want to work there. The dead need company as much as they need a hole in the ground, is what I told myself. But now, here I am, covered in sweat and dirt and I realise that this isn’t the job for me. I’m not sure it’s the job for anyone.
What they don’t tell you is that it’s more dangerous than you could ever expect. I’ve lost count of how many dead hands have risen from the grave to grab my ankles, attempting to drag me underground with them as my screams for help fall upon deaf and dead ears. One of them got a bite in. I don’t want to go to the doctors, but I’m worried I’ll turn into a zombie soon. Maybe it has already begun. After all, I could go for a big bag of chips or a succulent smoothy. I haven’t eaten in twelve hours, though, so I’m feeling hungry for anything.
Provided my boss doesn’t turn out to be another monstrosity, such as a skeleton or ghoul, I’ll be handing in my letter of resignation tomorrow. I know, I only just started this job and I’d hate to go running home with my tail between my legs, but what choice do I have? I’ll be asking where to get advice about a career change and taking the first opportunity that arises, even if I have to work at CFC. As long as the chickens don’t come back to life, I’ll take it.