Congratulations on Doing Someone Else's Chores!

The shovel will hit the dirt with a satisfying chuck each time.  The sound, interpreted by most as a monotonous marker of how far you've fallen in life, will actually be a sort of relief for you.  Its rhythm will remind you of music, and since joining  cult the only musical music you'll have heard will have been a kind of endless atonal chanting of the leader's name.  The sound of the shovel will take you away from all that, strike by strike, until you realize, after nearly two hours, that the hole is dug and that you're about as finished as you need to be.

Climbing out of the hole will be a challenge; the sides will collapse a little each time you try to pull yourself up out of it, but after about half an hour you'll emerge, white robes smeared with dirt and stained with sweat, arms aching.  You'll barely have the strength left to pick up Cheryl's corpse and let it tumble out of your arms and into the shallow grave.  The wrapping will peel off her a little as she tumbles in, exposing a bit of her face, or what's left of it anyway.  You'll do your best not to look at it, not to think about how she, until only two days ago, had elbowed you during chores and cracked jokes.  You'll wish that she'd just let the High Supreme Priest Leader Dad do his thing, the way every cultist did, but even that bit of independent thought, mired, as it is, in the knowledge that your leader is doing things to you you'd really prefer he not do, will slip away after a few seconds, leaving you sitting there, back on a pile of dirt, arms aching, chest heaving, wishing for a pair of hands to help you fill in the hole again, maybe Cheryl's hands, maybe anyone's hands, maybe just a glass of water or a good night's sleep without chanting to keep you from losing what's left of your mind.

Congratulations on Doing Someone Else's Chores!