Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Digging Yourself Deeper

 Here's my story from this weeks writing exercise. What do y'all think?

"You've been outside digging a large hole for several hours when you realize that you can't recall why you are digging it. Retrace your steps to try to discover your motivation. (500 words or fewer)"

I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. It seems like I’ve been digging for days, but I know that can’t be true. I remember going to work yesterday. I know it was yesterday because the sun is just coming up so another day is dawning. 

The pain in my shoulders tells me I have been at it for a while. My head aches something fierce, which makes sense when I think about the blood I wiped out of my eyes earlier. 

I wish I could remember why I’ve been digging a hole. I know it’s important, although I couldn’t tell you how I know. I feel the urgency. That’s why I haven’t stopped until now. I’ve finally reached my limit.

At least I was smart enough to bring a ladder into the hole with me. Not that I remember getting it from the garage, but I must have because nobody else is with me. Of course, the only other person that’s ever here is Greg, and he wouldn’t spit on me if I were on fire. 

I wonder where Greg is. He doesn’t usually let me out of his sight except to go to work. I am his property; he has the papers as he so often reminds me. 

It’s not like him to sleep through me getting up during the night either. Usually, the smallest movement wakes him. I can’t count the number of times I’ve almost peed myself waiting until morning to go to the bathroom. 

It seems like I remember Greg bringing home some beer last night. Maybe he got drunk. Hell, maybe I did too and that’s why I can’t remember why I’ve been digging a hole in the back yard. 

No time to worry about it now though. If I don’t have breakfast on the table when Greg wakes up, there’ll be hell to pay. I don’t think my aching body can handle a beating right now.

That’s strange. The back door is wide open. I never leave it open. A stray cat could wander in and Greg would have a fit. Muddy paw prints might mess up the pristine floor. 

What the hell? Greg is going to kill me. Who knocked all the kitchen chairs over? And the oven’s still on. The house could have burned down while I was out digging a damn hole. 

Is that blood? I should call the cops, but if Greg is ok, he’ll be upset if I involve the cops. I’ll look around first. Where’s my big butcher knife? I always leave it in the top drawer. Guess this one will have to do.

That’s a lot of blood. This is getting scary. 

Pull it together, Sandy and open the door. Greg will kill you if he’s hurt bad and you stand around like a scared rabbit doing nothing. 

Well, well. Looks like Greg won’t be killing anybody. And here I thought all the blood on my shirt was from my head wound.

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