Watching Traffic the other night, I wondered why in the heck anyone would dig their own grave. If someone is willing to kill you, make them dig their own grave. But what would I actually do if put in that position? More than likely I'd dig the grave. Slowly.
The sun beat on my exposed head like a jilted ex, searing my scalp a deep shade of red. My hands, white and flaky from the dry air, continued to cramp, loosening their grip on the shovel. I paused for a moment, leaning on the shovel to rest. Lips chapped to the point of bleeding, I tried to moisten them with my tongue, just as a boot connected with the small of my back, causing me to bite down hard on my tongue.
“Get back to work,” Victor said with a laugh.
I’d always thought that if I were ever in a position where someone told me to dig my own grave, I’d tell them to go to hell. I mean, what were they going to do? They’re going to kill me anyway, I thought. Yet here I was, knee-deep in a hole that would eventually be my final bed, digging my own grave.
“Screw you Victor. You want to finish this hole?” I turned to look at him, eyes squinting against the sun.
“Shut up and dig.”
I turned back to the half-empty hole, picked up the shovel and drove it into the ground with a heavy sigh. They’re just going to kill you anyway, why dig the grave for them? “To give me time to think,” I whispered under my breath.
“What?” Victor asked.
“Screw you Victor. Screw you.”