In Response

This is an essay I wrote for an English class in college. We were to write an essay about a Poe short story we had just read. The assignment was very broad, so I took my liberties...

15 June 2249
Journal Entry 419
Italy Site 112

Upon further inspection of the site, my colleagues and I have stumbled upon the remains of several humans in what appears to be the catacombs of an old wine cellar. This method of wine storage was not uncommon in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, before the invention of refrigeration. The cool cellars that housed the bones of the deceased family members of the particular house were also the perfect temperature for the storage of fine wines. As grotesque as that sounds to our technology-spoiled ears, it came to make sense to store the wines among the deceased members of their family.

This discovery in and of itself is not unusual for our perusal of the remains of this Italian city, but one set of remains in particular puzzles me simply because of the nature of its burial. Most archaeologists would write this set off as a mere noble, and one of considerable wealth, since his remains were clearly separated from the rest of the catacombs in a small niche. Still, I am left wondering if this set of bones has a more gruesome tale to tell. Of course, these speculations were all scoffed at by my esteemed colleagues, and though I showed no outward sign, their cruel tauntings have left me ill-tempered. This is one of thousands of injuries I have borne the best I could. Alas, one day I will have my revenge, and my poor, unexplained bones have left me with tempting thoughts of that nature.

Why, then, do you ask, should I seek revenge? Have they not made a mockery of my illustrious career? Have they not sought my downfall in the field? Have they not merrily warned my students about my “attacks of imagination?” I have become a joke amongst my own peers. And to what cause? Naught but simple gratification of their own whimsical humors.

Firstly, they dared to jest about the conditions in which we found the remains. “He is naught but a noble,” they said. “Look at the scraps of silk and velvet, and even bells we have found still intact after four hundred years! He was a celebrated person!” Ah, but a noble could afford a true burial, not a shoddy masonry job obviously performed by an amateur. And why, then, should a noble be buried behind a brick wall? Why not leave him out for all to admire, or build him a coffin of splendor lacquered in gold? No, I tell you our noble was murdered!

Then, they laughed and chanted, “Come now, he was naught but a noble. Look at how they buried him erect, to forever convey his sense of power over those he ruled?”

With a glint of amusement in my eye, I answered them. Ah, yes, he was buried erect. But see the bodies stacked before his tomb? They were carelessly moved there for the burial of this man. See the chains? Surely the weight of the dead is so great that mere chains around his waist would not hold him up. Notice the looseness of the chains. This was a considerable man, to have such loose chains to hold him up. Surely a second chain around his chest, or even a third around his legs, would be necessary to hold him erect. No, I tell you our noble was buried alive!

They looked at me then, their smiles fading. Had their merriment ceased as they realized the truth of what I have said? No, they still resist. “Why, then, would such a man be murdered? You are truly mad.”

Mad, am I? No, I am not mad. A man may have many reasons to plan such a death for another. Was the murderer a madman on a killing spree? A jealous husband seeking revenge? Or perhaps the most terrifying of all, a friend?

They leave me now to my speculations. Ah, my lonely pile of gray bones, so old in your forgotten tomb, I believe you are the creator of an epiphany. Therefore, I must name you, since you have birthed my great redeeming revenge. We are in Italy, and it was my good fortune and happenstance to stumble upon you. I therefore shall name you… Fortunato.