𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝑾𝒆 𝑫𝒊𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝑺𝒂𝒚

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞

┏━━━ ❀ ━━━┓
𝐀 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫
┗━━━ ❀ ━━━┛
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Friday, April 13th, 2018

Back aching and arms tired, I can't stop. I cast another load of dirt over my shoulder with a heave. I'd say the hole's about six feet deep now.

Back into the loose, disturbed ground, I slam the shovel blade and in the midst of sweat, I drag my hand across my temple and take a glance at the work we've done - it isn't pretty, but it will have to do.

I notice clouds are gathering and I realize we don't have much time before rain wipes our work away. "(Y/n/n)." I look up to see a pair of golden brown eyes gazing into mine as he wraps his hand around the shovel, "I think it's deep enough."

Looking around the four walls of dirt, which happen to be taller than me, I remember the real reason we're here. We were not digging a hole. We are digging a grave.

A hand dirty with muck holds itself out to me and I hesitate before taking it. The larger hand of the man above us pulls me from the ourself made trench before offering asstancient to the other.

Having thrown in a blood-stained white carpet, the five of us stood around the freshly dug grave, all of us frozen as if trying to render the situation surreal.

It's only when her gentle palm slips in mine that I become aware of the urgency of the situation. Like her touch had burned, I instantly pull away. I could sense her emerald greens on me, though I'm not strong enough to meet them.

-

How did a group of college students find themselves deep in the woods burying a body? That's a complicated question.

It would only make sense if I didn't start from the beginning, but rather when the past caught up with me and threatened to destroy the new life I've built for myself.

-

Today on Sunday, January 1st, 2023

Taking my finger over the neat, personalized cursive lettering, I trace it delicately, admiring its beauty. The letters are both large and loopy. The penmanship, nothing but perfect.

And yet I haven't brought myself to open the thin white envelope. It frightens me what could be inside. What news would be so important to send me a letter? To contact me at all.

I pin it to the fridge, now examining it with my eyes from across the room. Maybe I should burn it? Save myself from the disappointment.

No.

I wouldn't be able to live with the never knowing. It doesn't have to be bad news. Maybe it's something good?

This morning when I stepped outside, reaching for the mailbox I wasn't expecting to find anything other than bills as I flipped through the mail. Definitely not expecting to find my name written in this unforgettable cursive.

With curtains drawn aside allowing the day to flood in through the windows and nestled up on the couch, I stare down at the screen of my laptop resting upon my criss-crossed legs, hands on the keyboard but unable to write anything.

I haven't written anything in over a year. At least nothing worth publishing. There's just too many thoughts flowing in my head.

A whirlwind of rapid-fire thoughts, ideas, and notes erupting from my mind, the Microsoft document cursor blinking steadily on the screen in front of me.

A week passes and I still have yet to pry open the envelope to see what lies inside. Instead I've given it the power to taunt me by finding a comfortable position on the couch which allows me full sight of my laptop screen and an easy peripheral view of the envelope pinned to the fridge.