To Bury a Body

Burying a body was hard. Clinton knew this well.

He first had to find a good spot to dig--perhaps a spot where people may not notice the freshly turned earth. He chose the soft patch of dirt outside their cabin, where the roots of trees jutted up from the ground like gnarled fingers, a spot just where the forest began.

The body in question was wrapped in soft, white, horse printed sheets and tied with cord, but none of that stopped the bundle from squirming and wrestling about.

With a grunt, Clinton picked her up, arms straining as he threw her body over his shoulder. She protested; a hungry, muffled cry.

"Babygirl," he said with a whimper.

Clinton wasn’t a small man, but was rather burly and tall, with a close shaved beard. His dark skin was rough and marked with battle scars but his eyes were gentle. Clinton was a strong man, but holding his little girl's body in his arms made him weak. He hated what he had to do.

Burying a body was hard.

Clinton stopped a couple of feet away from the spot he’d chosen and set her body down. It bucked and rolled, arms slowly trying to work themselves free. Clinton took a deep breath and grabbed the shovel that sat up against the cabin wall. It was next to an old pink tricycle, faded and grimy with time. The pink tassels at the handles’ end had all but torn away, a faded memory of his girl's childhood. She was a bit older now, but hadn't even gotten to graduate highschool.

“Hush now,” he said. “It's almost over, babygirl.”

Rubbing his eyes and wiping his face, he went to the soft patch of ground and began to dig. He didn’t wear gloves. His big hands were calloused from years of wood work.

He looked at the writhing body again and she let out a desperate scream. But, no one could hear her, they were thankfully miles away from anyone else. Maybe that’s why this happened. Not enough Humans around. He blamed himself.

Clinton forced the shovel into the ground, wrenched the dirt into the mouth of the shovel and scooped it to the side.

Burying a body was hard.

You couldn’t just dig a hole; there was an art to shoveling, a rhythm that set into one's hands, shoulders, back, and legs. Clinton’s biceps bulged as he struck the earth, he exhaled in one motion, inhaling as his stance changed and his back tensed as he flung pounds of dirt into a pile.

Droplets of sweat beaded his forehead and soon dampened his chest and stained his armpits. It darkened his light blue shirt to an Indigo hue.

“D-daddy?…” came a wretched voice.

“No…no, no,” Clinton said, shaking his head. She couldn’t talk. Not in words. Not anymore.

He dug and she struggled, her teeth clacking and chomping. Wet stains appeard on the sheet where her mouth had pressed against it, hungry to taste blood and flesh.

Clinton’s hairy fingers reddened as his grip tightened and soon his knees ached, but he did not stop digging. His muscles cried for a break, but he kept shoveling as quickly as he could. In those hard moments, he would glance at the wrapped body that lay a few feet away. He could see one arm was freed now and clutching at the moist soil. It bore the bloody mark of a bite. He let the memory of her give him strength.

“Hang on,” he said.

Panting now, Clinton had dug his hole several feet deep. He tossed the shovel up and planted his palms just outside the hole as he attempted to hoist himself out. His arms shook and his body strained then faltered. He fell back into the hole, hot breath beginning to fog in the chilly air. His eyes stung from dirt and sweat. Outside the hole, he could hear her.

Clinton sat back in the hole and wondered if he belonged there instead. He suddenly felt so weak with anguish.

No. It wasn't done yet. He knew he had tried everything he could. There was no cure for and he couldn’t just abandon her--not his babygirl.

Dirt fell from above and Clinton looked up in time to see the silhouette of the sheet covered body and one arm reaching down for him. The body tipped down and fell right into the hole with him, grabbing and scratching at him. She smelled of rot and dying flesh. Clinton yelled and kicked his daughter in the face.

She screeched and let out a feral cry.

“Please, baby...just rest now."

But, she wouldn't. In a second, she was on top of him, teeth pressed against the sheet and chomping at his face. Clinton shieled himself with his hands and felt the sharp sting of her teeth on the back of his hand. He screamed in sheer terror then took her by the neck and began to squeeze, even though it was too late.

He squeezed and choked her, his baby girl, as hard as he could. The blood and adrenaline rushing through his body, and the pain of it--the pain was greater than he would have ever imagined it to be. Clinton would have to break her neck under his own hands.

Clinton turned his body, reversing their positions. He straddled her and began to bang her head against the dirt floor. He strangled her, crying out as she raked nails across his forearm.

Panicking, Clinton stood and raised his boot clad feet then stomped on her head. The body grunted and halted, dazed by the blow. Clinton struck again, and again, closing his eyes as he heard the sickening crunch of her skull openign up. Blood and yellowish fluids began to stain the sheets. Clinton didn't stop till she was no longer moving.

Once it had all gone quiet, he placed his hands outside of the hole once more and cried out as he pulled himself up and dragged his own body from the hole. His clothes were muddy, and dirt caked under his fingernails. He wanted to lay down, to forget or to pretend it was all ad ream, but he looked at the body wrapped in those horse printed sheets and felt his heart sink. He grabbed his shovel once more.

When burying a body, it was always harder to fill the hole. Every second her body was less and less visible. Farther and farther away.

One last scoop of dirt.

Clinton finished and patted the earth down. He placed his shovel back up against the wall, next to the pink tricycle then went back inside. He lit the fireplace, but felt he would never be warm again.

They lived alone. Now only he lived there--alone.

Clinton washed up then went to the kitchen, opened the fridge and grabbed a cold beer. He went into his living room to sit in his recliner, flopping into it with exhausted defeat. He was a strong man, but her death made him weak. Clinton cracked open his beer before turning the television on.

There was a football game on; Houston versus Pittsburgh. Clinton took a long, hard drink then looked out the window where he knew that patch of soft earth would be.

Outside, near the edge of the trees, among the roots where the forest began. He pressed his lips together, nostrils flaring as fingers pressed so tight against the can of beer, they dented the metal.

Clinton looked down at his hand and the bloody bite his daughter had left. The television roared as Houston scored.

Clinton turned off the TV then drank the rest of his beer in silence. Burying a body was hard.