A breeze lifted the sweaty hair from my forehead. I faced it and closed my eyes, the scent of cool spring plunging through my sinuses.
“Dig,” he said.
I frowned and went back to it. Dirt scratched under my nails and smeared my upper lip. Sweat rolled between my shoulder blades, leaked down my spine, and met my belt where it soaked into my waistband. I relished it all. I dug as slow as I thought he’d allow, feeling every moment of ache in my arms, taking a peek at the perfect blue sky when he wasn’t watching.
“Dig,” he said, pointing to the hole. The son of a bitch never stopped watching. I opened my mouth to speak to him but before I spoke he stood, imposing his height on me down in this hole. It was almost done. When he approached the hole with his rebar I tried to make myself as small as possible. He stuck the rebar into the hole and as it met the ground with a flat thud, he dared me with his eyes to try something.
I mean I had to, right? He was making me dig my own grave. I couldn’t finish it, not on such a gorgeous day.
He pulled the rebar from the hole and finally looked away. I threw the shovel at his face for all I was worth. It opened a gash in his forehead that I swear went to the bone. As blood poured into his eyes, he raised the gun and fired, then fell face first into the hole with me. His neck crunched like a pinecone sounds when you step on it.
Damn that was a satisfying sound. I’m laying here, and he shot me in the side so maybe it’s not fatal but this hole is five feet deep if it’s a day and I’m laying in this pool of blood. But I can’t feel much, so I guess that’s a good thing. Maybe somebody heard the shot? Did I mention how perfect the sky is today? Not a single cloud. You could live your whole life and never get a spring day so perfect.