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Literature Text
It isn’t until four in the morning, when you’re in the woods and three foot deep the hole that she asks what you’re sure she’s been wanting to ask all night.
“Why’d you kill him?”
You don’t have time to pause but you slow down a bit, the next few piles of dirt you work free with the shovel ruminative. You should’ve worn gloves. Not to keep your prints off of it but because all this dirt is getting stuck under your fingernails.
Freshly painted fingernails, at that. You did it in a pattern. Turquoise and cotton candy, turquoise and cotton candy.
“Why?” She asks again, only as loud as a whisper as she slings some clods over her shoulder.
And then you realize, that was it, really. He got under your fingernails like dirt. Ugly, annoying, filthy dirt.
But what was it, exactly, what was the thing that made you decide he had to go? There had to be something that prompted you. He’s always irritated you, his stupid guffaw grating against your ears, his stale sense of humor chipping at your soul, his pigheaded, obnoxious demeanor, his sheer selfish obliviousness.
What was the trigger here? What spurned you to sprinkle his curry in cerberin and bury the axe in his back?
Ah, you know.
“He put the peanut butter in the fridge.” You scowl and spit into the next mound of dirt you toss over your shoulder.
She bends over, stifling her snickering into her sleeve. “Unforgivable.”
“I know, right?” You tip your head back and inhale a breath of the humid night air. The crickets sing in the background, and he’s probably so self-absorbed to assume it’s his funeral song. The bastard.
“You don’t think they’re gonna find him, do you? Because if they do, we’re fucked. Forensics is serious shit. They could trace us back to him with a single carpet fiber.”
“I have tile floor. Besides, who’s gonna look for him?” Your muscles are tired, but overtaxing them almost feels good. It’s been awhile since you’ve had this much exercise.
“Good point.”
She climbs out of the hole and helps you up, and then it’s just a matter of kicking all the pieces in and pretending you were both at her mother’s place.
“Why’d you kill him?”
You don’t have time to pause but you slow down a bit, the next few piles of dirt you work free with the shovel ruminative. You should’ve worn gloves. Not to keep your prints off of it but because all this dirt is getting stuck under your fingernails.
Freshly painted fingernails, at that. You did it in a pattern. Turquoise and cotton candy, turquoise and cotton candy.
“Why?” She asks again, only as loud as a whisper as she slings some clods over her shoulder.
And then you realize, that was it, really. He got under your fingernails like dirt. Ugly, annoying, filthy dirt.
But what was it, exactly, what was the thing that made you decide he had to go? There had to be something that prompted you. He’s always irritated you, his stupid guffaw grating against your ears, his stale sense of humor chipping at your soul, his pigheaded, obnoxious demeanor, his sheer selfish obliviousness.
What was the trigger here? What spurned you to sprinkle his curry in cerberin and bury the axe in his back?
Ah, you know.
“He put the peanut butter in the fridge.” You scowl and spit into the next mound of dirt you toss over your shoulder.
She bends over, stifling her snickering into her sleeve. “Unforgivable.”
“I know, right?” You tip your head back and inhale a breath of the humid night air. The crickets sing in the background, and he’s probably so self-absorbed to assume it’s his funeral song. The bastard.
“You don’t think they’re gonna find him, do you? Because if they do, we’re fucked. Forensics is serious shit. They could trace us back to him with a single carpet fiber.”
“I have tile floor. Besides, who’s gonna look for him?” Your muscles are tired, but overtaxing them almost feels good. It’s been awhile since you’ve had this much exercise.
“Good point.”
She climbs out of the hole and helps you up, and then it’s just a matter of kicking all the pieces in and pretending you were both at her mother’s place.
© 2015 - 2024 MelonyFelony
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