It's cold. It's always cold, even in the summer, I shiver as I sleep on the dirty cement floor feeling my loneliness wrap around me. Everyday I'm put to work, digging and digging, grave after grave. Rough hands grip me, muddy books kick me and insults break me. Never am I allowed respite from this endless cycle of labor. Never have I felt the warmth of a companion, only those who share my cruel fate. Every night I am thrown into the garage, forgotten until the next day. It's cold.

This is my life, this is my unchangeable fate for I am merely...





A shovel.