It was wrong to bury a body without a proper marker.

He found it some way into the woods. It wasn't clear if it was marking an overgrown grave or if it was just discarded some time ago. Graveyard keepers didn't have any respect for the waste disposal system and just threw what was unwanted into the woods.

Either way, he wasn't above a bit of grave robbing. It was his, now.

Whatever name had graced the stone before was mostly worn away by debris and time, but he thought he could make out something like "H. Holmes." All that was really left was the "me". It was ironic, so he kept it, carefully deepening the remaining pair of letters with a small sharp trowel in his free time.

It felt right that he wouldn't have a name on his headstone. Names were for brothers, mothers, sons, beloveds. He wasn't anything like that. Beloveds and sons didn't kill their parents. He was just Sock, and he wasn't even sure he deserved that. At the very least, he most definitely would not have his birth name hovering above his head for all time.

"me" would do just fine.

Sock's job was simple. He dug graves for the nearby crematory and whoever else wanted their final resting place to be the serene Primrose Cemetery. It looked nice, as far as cemeteries went. Trees enclosed it on all sides, the woods started on the north end. It was small, historical (the home of three famous pilots and, according to his boss, a senator), and quiet. Out of the way, so that the most traffic that traveled the county road nearby was maybe five cars a day.

At one time this had been good for him. He didn't need an audience when he buried his parents. And he didn't need anyone watching him off himself after.

The moon was full and low to the horizon, throwing him into shadow on one side and light on the other. The light made it easier to dig. It felt like cosmic encouragement. It confirmed that for once, he was doing the right thing.

It took some hours to get eight feet down and several across, but the moon was still providing light by the time tossed the shovel to the side and grabbed his knife.

One last thing.

"Well old friend, never thought I'd find myself on your business end."

He gripped the knife and before he could think, pulled it into his chest. With the muscles he had developed from years a grave digging, it wouldn't be difficult to break the skin and muscle, maybe even the bone.

Only it wasn't solid bone that stopped the knife. In fact, it never went through a layer of flesh at all. It stopped just before his chest. He couldn't move his arms. Some psychic force force held it back. Jaw clenched, he dropped his arms and threw the knife into the grave. He gripped the ears of his hat and pulled in frustration.

This was what he wanted, to be dead. Right?

But he didn't find it in him to off himself. How could he, when suddenly, he knew what it felt like to kill. He'd been asleep, but he thought he could remember the thrill. In the moment, it seemed like a dream, but he was standing over his open grave, which lay next to the fresh earth of his parents graves, and knew it couldn't be a dream.

If he killed himself, he could never feel that thrill while awake.

Not to mention, the whole town was interested in the murder. He had their attention, even if they didn't know it was him. For years he'd had no real friends. He still lived with his parents, for God's sake. His social life was abysmal, no one paid attention to the weird gravedigger.

Except now, everyone did.

He'd been on the news, in a way. As the victim of his parents' murder, he'd asked to not be included in any news segments, so as Sock Sowachowski, he was still mostly anonymous. But as the killer of his parents, he was the talk of the town.

Unbeknownst to anyone but himself, he was Sock Sowachowski: Gravedigger, killer of Parents, no one's Beloved, no longer a Son.

He was Sock, and he'd killed his parents. In his sleep.

The third person he killed was intentional.

His name was Henry. As the local morgue technician, he did everything a normal person did except when he went in to work, he stuck his hands in human bodies legally.

Sock knew him as the one whose work was so good, that when he attended his parents' funeral, he couldn't tell that they had been literally cut open and dissected by the figurative legal system.

Apparently, he had been part of the local deathcare industry longer than Sock had been digging graves. Which to Sock was saying something, considering it felt like he'd spent a lifetime in the dirt.

He thanked Henry for taking care of his parents.

Along the way to work, Henry ran into Sock on the long stretch of empty, uninhabited road, looking for what caused a flat in the tire of his bike. Henry offered to help. Henry was really too kind. Henry was dead now, lying in the ditch with a big oblong rock by his head.

It was wrong to bury a body without a proper marker.

Sock had wanted to see if he could do it. Kill again.

Sure, his parents had been a mistake. But this was something he could apparently do in his sleep. A skill so great, it was just bursting out of him. How could he ignore that? The whole world had to see.

And it was seeing. He'd caught a news segment on Henry just yesterday.

Of course as a kid he'd been a bit notorious for taking small animal life. But humans were another thing entirely. They were bigger, they were smarter, and they were meaner. It was wrong to kill them. Like, really wrong. But it was also really fun.

When Henry had struggled and pleaded and moaned, Sock felt so alive. The sky was brighter and his blood was louder and the adrenalin fueled a little giggle.

It was like validation rushed out of Henry instead of blood. Sock was coated with it. He could do what he wanted. He could kill if he wanted.

He could kill anyone he wanted to.

(Except maybe himself.)

Henry had a pretty average funeral. Sad slow music, sobbing family, grown adults still calling him "dad" when it was their turn to speak. Sock left early to make sure he was at the gravesite on time. When the procession arrived, something caught his eye. As people congregated around the open grave, near the back of the crowd was an unfamiliar face with the most beautiful eyes. They shimmered, but not with tears. They were like blue diamonds set in a totally impassive stone face. As the priest droned, those eyes locked with Sock's, and he found himself smiling with a soft dreamy sigh, even while the face stayed stony.

When the crowd dispersed, the family had thrown some dirt on the coffin, and he finished the job, Sock asked his boss, the president of the crematory Mephistopheles, who had the blue diamond eyes.

"That would be Jonathan Combs."

Mephistopheles shuffled through some papers on his desk, eventually pulling out a newspaper clipping: Henry's obituary.

"The guy who was killed, Henry. He was the morgue technician. They got a new one, that Jonathan kid, from out of town. The Medical Examiner says he's a good kid. Not that he's passed his exams with perfect scores or anything, but that he's got the right attitude about the industry. Seems pretty unflappable."

"Yeah…" Sock agreed with the unflappable-ness. His heart squeezed, wondering what that meant for his love life.

The crematorium and morgue were across the street from one another. This meant that the employees from both would often run into each other at one of the few restaurants in the vicinity. That was how Sock met Lil.

Lil was a security guard for the morgue. The labs and lockers containing dead bodies were sensitive evidence that had to be protected from tampering or theft.

"They pay me to look spooky and stand by doors," she said.

"Sounds lovely," Sock joked.

She laughed around her burger.

Lil wore what most security guards wear. A jacket with some badges, a utility belt with a heavy flashlight and a walkie talkie. She was usually in jeans and black boots when Sock ran into her at lunch. Her hair was perpetually in a ponytail, with a few strands loose. One day she showed up and sat at their table as usual, except there was one big difference.

"What happened to your hair?"

Lil rubbed her hair self-consciously. It was buzzed close to her skin, so it was just a purple shadow on her cranium. "Boss thought my hair was unprofessional, told me to get it cut."

Sock frowned. There had been nothing wrong with Lil's hair before, and he said so.

Lil sighed. "Yeah, well tell my boss that. Actually, don't. I need this job."

She kept rubbing her hair.

"It'll grow back out again," Sock said, trying for reassurance.

"I guess."

It was a quiet lunch hour.

Charlotte was Lil's boss, Sock discovered. She was a short but fierce woman, with a shaved head herself. Despite the apparent harshness towards her employees, she had a bad habit of being a Good Samaritan whenever the possibility struck. In the short time Sock observed her, she jumped a couple cars, helped the elderly cross the street, carried groceries for a woman in a wheelchair, and stayed with a lost child until her mother showed up. It was so sweet it was almost sickening. He wondered how someone like that could make Lil cut her hair.

No matter.

He told the police that he'd made a good friend who had been wronged terribly. They could understand bad people happen to good things, he supposed. Lil was a good thing, and her boss didn't deserve her. He'd been itching to kill again, his letter said. So he decided to give Charlotte what was coming for her.

"The Good Samaritan made one mistake and it followed her to the grave."

The police found her in her backyard, a stone in the grass at her head.

Somebody new joined "their" table. At least, Sock considered it his and Lil's table, since they sat there everyday. He'd be more than open to new members, especially given that the person who had just sat down was "blue diamond eyes" Jonathan Combs.

"Hey Lil," he said.

Lil nodded back, staring vacantly at her hamburger.

Jonathan sat down and began eating without acknowledging Sock. Which was fine, Sock could initiate greetings.

"Hi!" Sock offered.

Jonathan looked up from his salad, nodded in his direction once, and then went back to eating.

Sock frowned.

"You're Jonathan, right?"

Jonathan nodded again.

"I'm Sock!"

Jonathan nodded without looking away from his food. He didn't even raise an eyebrow at the ridiculousness of the name, like Sock normally got. Odd.

But then again, when he'd first seen him, it seemed like Jonathan was made of stone, so maybe this was how he normally was. Unflappable.

Sock could deal with that.

The next lunch, Jonathan was back. Sock dragged him into a grudging conversation about the quality, or lack thereof, of the fast food, which consisted mostly of Sock babbling and Jonathan grunting. Jonathan ate quickly and left just as fast, giving Lil a quick goodbye.

Sock cocked his head towards Lil.

"I'm getting the feeling he doesn't like me."

Lil shrugged good naturedly and quietly replied, "He's just a sourpuss. He'll warm up."

"It's not the grave digging, is it? He saw me at the funeral, he must know that I bury dead bodies for a living. I know that freaks some people out."

"Sock," Lil gave him a flat look, "there's no way in hell that's it. Jonathan works at a morgue. He touches dead bodies every day."

"Still…" Stigma runs deep.

"Give him some time. The only reason he warmed up to me is because we see each other every day. He's met you―what? Three times?"

That was true. He just had to keep seeing Jonathan.

The morgue was a plain building. With its gray cement exterior, which lacked any decoration whatsoever, it was something obviously built in the utilitarian 60s. Something about the smooth, untouched cement made it look supernaturally out of place, like it was a huge square UFO that plopped itself in a quaint countryside settlement.

Sock pushed through the swinging doors and immediately dodged a speeding stretcher. There was a desk with two harried secretaries, each on two phones at once, typing on computers. People in police-looking uniforms stalked across the lobby with legions of scrubbed-up morgue staff in tow. No one paid him any mind.

Another stretcher rushed by, this time with a lumpy sheet on top. Sock grinned. That must be a dead body! How cool.

What was definitely not cool was the noise and visual chaos of the lobby. He shook his head to clear any thoughts and carefully stepped into the bustle, trying to figure which direction to go. Eventually, he chose the right, where the stretcher with the sheet had gone. He walked quickly, looking determined. No one stopped him until he came to a door at the end of the hallway. He eased it open and found empty flights of stairs.

He would go down, he decided. Decent was comforting and familiar, like slowly digging his way down into a grave.

Sock certainly felt like he was in a grave. As he hopped down the stairs, it grew colder and darker, even with abundant fluorescent lighting. His footsteps echoed off the smooth cement walls, allowing him the knowledge that he was completely alone, wherever he was.

At the bottom of the stairs was a sign before a pair of doors that said "Labs." Jonathan had mentioned that he worked in an autopsy lab, right?

Sock took a deep breath and went inside, walking down another hallway lined with large viewing windows. He noticed someone familiar approaching, a purple shadow on their head. Waving, he sped up. Lil would know where to go.

Jonathan was beautiful, haloed by the lamp suspended above the table. Like an angel. A collection of sharp utensils was arrayed before him, gleaming with water. Latex gloves covered his hands, there was a mask over his mouth and nose, and he was wearing turquoise scrubs, faded from years of bleaching.

He finished sudsing up what looked like a small saw and laid it out to dry with the rest of the equipment. He turned to Sock, who could tell he was frowning under the mask.

"You're not supposed to be in here."

"I wanted to see you." Sock bounced a bit, grinning.

Jonathan sighed and turned around, picking up the washed equipment and walking to a cabinet. "Go outside and I'll talk when I'm done."

"No."

"Sock…"

"Jonathan," Sock mocked.

"How did you even get in here?"

Sock shrugged. Once the initial confusion at the chaos wore off, he walked through the halls like he was supposed to be there, and while he got a few looks, probably because of the dirty overalls and boots, no one stopped him until he found Jonathan's lab. Lil had been at the door, on duty. He chatted with her without revealing his intentions to go in the sterile room until she left to go to the bathroom, then he just slipped inside.

Jonathan ripped off his gloves and rubbed his forehead. His eyes were ringed with darkness, and for once his stony face showed an emotion: anger.

"I can call security on you, do you really want that?"

Sock wouldn't care either way, it would be worth it to see Jonathan for a little while longer. But he didn't feel well with that anger turned towards him. He swallowed heavily and left, heart shuddering a little. Another day, then.

One day, he thought, trudging back through the hallways, those blue diamond eyes wouldn't look at him like he was just dirt in a sterile room.

The fourth person he killed was biking along a county road at night, alone, in the dark and quiet. The bike's wheels creaked ever so slightly, which tipped Sock off to the person's presence. He called to them and they stopped to talk, albeit they didn't dismount. Sock smiled and charmed and was all around neighborly until he felt the person had relaxed enough that the muscles wouldn't tense up and make it difficult to get the knife deep in their body.

He made sure to lay the bike by their body. Whoever was next of kin would want it. It was a nice bike.

He mailed his next letter, which said, in part: "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust… You can't buy diamonds with dirt."

Sock snuck in the lab again.

"Sock!"

That was not a happy exclamation. It was how someone would say the name of their dog as it peed on the President of the United States of America's leg.

"I thought I told you to stay out last time," Jonathan said.

"You did," Sock confirmed. That wasn't going to stop him, though.

Jonathan turned his glare to the large viewing window. Sock saw Lil's wide eyes and mischievous smile duck away from the glass.

"Lil let you in?"

Sock nodded.

Jonathan grumbled under his breath and rifled through a drawer, emerging with a clipboard. There was a body on one of the tables near the door, covered with a white sheet sansup to the head. Sock recognized the face with a start. It was his latest kill… What was their name again? Come to think of it, he had never caught this person's name. They were just the person with the bike.

Well, the person with the bike was all autopsied up, presumably.

"The investigators will be here soon," Jonathan warned. "We have reason to believe there's a big case, now. You really have to leave."

Before Sock could reply, they both looked to the door as a legion of shoes clopped down the hallway towards Jonathan's lab.

Sock ducked behind a cabinet at the back of the room. He peered out at Jonathan, who gave him a grind of the jaw, then turned to welcome the investigators. They discussed the autopsy results at length. It ended up with Jonathan listing a long, clinical description of the injuries. Sock listened intently, fascinated. He couldn't believe so much effort went into studying his kills after the fact.

"The wounds are the same: sharp force injury, deep tissue (full thickness, stage four), 30 centimeters tunneling at 10 o'clock lateral from the left collarbone to above the right kidney. Once the incision cleared the ribcage it went deep in the stomach. The killing injury was the sharp force across the neck, though. That's where arteries were cut and the major blood loss occurred. I'd say this looks like it was done with something resembling a blunt kitchen knife, about 15 to 20 centimeters long. Whoever did this must be fairly strong, given the depth of the wounds despite the blunt blade. Two swings and it was done. That much force belongs to someone with some real muscle."

Sock grinned. Jonathan admired his muscles.

"Now, the angle of the wounds suggests that the perpetrator is between 5 foot 4 inches to 5 foot 6 inches. That's accurate as long as the victim was standing straight at the time of the attack. Additionally, because of the neck wound, I believe that the perpetrator has hunting knowledge, given that it seems like it's practiced. It's similar to what one would do to bleed out an animal. The frontal slash would primarily stun and incapacitate the victim enough to make the killing blow easier. Any questions?"

The investigators shook their heads mutely and thanked him for his time. Once they left, Sock came out from behind the cabinet.

"Wow, thats some intense stuff."

Jonathan glared at him.

Sock raised his hands in surrender.

"Alright, I'm off."

Lil nodded to him outside the door.

"He's still angry," Sock said, dejected.

"Time," was all Lil said, giving him a small smile.

Sock was beginning to think maybe she understood why Jonathan was so important to him.