Dig

This flash fiction piece was written as a story companion to the day 24 drawing prompt Dig from the 2020 Inktober prompt list. Click here to see the drawing.

I picture you in the snow, white powder dusting your knees.

I picture you wearing cheap, black, machine-knit gloves from Walmart, and brown twigs from barren trees poking out from the landscape all around you.

I picture you, the very poster of a winter country boy, and the ATV loaded with your pistols and your targets, plus those saddle bags full of supplies, food and a Coleman portable camping stove.

I picture you this way because it was the last way I saw you.

When you told me you wanted to take me, “winter camping,” I thought it was the strangest thing I’d ever heard in the world. But I grew up in the city. Dead center of a metropolis, I’d barely even seen an honest to God star in the night sky until I moved to Wyoming.

Until I met you.

“Won’t we freeze?”

“Ain’t ya ever heard of a campfire, darlin’?”

You loved to tease me, especially about things you knew more about than I did. I remember rolling my eyes.

“Yes, I’ve heard of a campfire. I may not have grown up in the country, but I still went to Girl Scouts.”

“I thought you never went camping?”

I laughed. “Rooftops, tents, and a fire pit make a decent substitute. How do you think I learned to make the perfect s’more.?” I held mine up.

I’d had a craving for them and we went to the store in the middle of the night for the supplies. We huddled around my gas stove and I showed the trick to getting the marshmallows the perfect shade of golden brown. You laughed at me and set yours aflame, saying you liked the flavor of a good char.

“Well, even if the fire doesn’t keep you warm,” That’s when you snuggled up next to me and snaked your arms around my waist. “Then I will.”

“The snow is five feet deep out there, no matter how hot you might get, I doubt you can counteract frostbite,” I replied, giggling.

That’s when you changed. I’d seen it happen, twice, maybe three times, before. I would say something silly, something harmless, but it would bother you. Infuriate you. Up to that point, I wrote it off as a bad temper, given that all you did was snap at me. I would apologize and soothe you until the storm passed, and then I pushed away the alarm bells that went off in my head at the vehemence in your anger.

But that night was different. Your arms tightened against my waist, too hard, and when I cried out in pain, you grabbed a fistfull of my hair and yanked my head back.

“You think it’s funny, mocking me like that?”

“What? I was just being silly! Please stop, that hurts!!”

“You like laughing at me, huh? Making a joke out of something nice I wanted to do for you?”

“No, I just —”

POP! I’d never been hit across the face like that before and I finally understood why people said they see stars when it happens. My vision flashed white, and I was about to cry out again when the second blow came.

I woke up in the cab of your truck, hands tied behind my back, a gag in my mouth, and blood dripping into my eyes. Everything hurt. You must have kept hitting me after I blacked out.

Next thing I knew, I was lying in the snow on a beautiful winter morning, watching you dig a ditch that I could only assume was for me. The ground was frozen and it was taking forever for you to make any headway. I got colder and colder as I lay there, with no coat. At first, I had tried to wriggle away, but you hit me with the back of your shovel and when I came to, and after that, I was too numb to move. All I could do was whimper behind the ripped up piece of my shirt you stuffed in my mouth to keep me quiet.

I laid there wishing I’d listen to my gut the first time you yelled at me and punched that hole in the wall. I wished I’d never moved to Wyoming. I wished there was something I could do to stop the inevitable.

After ten minutes of watching your shoulders get lower and lower in the hole, you climbed back up and walked over to me.

That’s how all always picture you, now that I’m dead: covered in fine, white powder, holding that shovel over your head just before you landed the final blow.