December 15, 2008
By Claire Forste, Orem, UT

The rhythm of the shovel sinking into the dirt was etched into his mind by the end of that horrible night. He could still remember the steepness of the mountain, and the feeling of the rain soaking into his skin, turning it icy cold.

The image of the corpse’s face twisted in agony would often still wake him in the dead of the night, forcing a blood curdling scream from his lips. Often he would envision the blood stained hands of that murderer.

“I’m that murderer,” he would whisper into the darkness of the night.

The walk down that mountain was the hardest in his life. Trudging down the slick paths, holding the tool that had both ended his friend’s life, and laid him to rest, he could hardly stand to think of it. What was undoubtedly worse, though, was what had awaited him at the bottom.

She never said a word of what they had done. Not a word about the lie she had lived. Likewise, he also kept his confession silent. He was sure she knew. He had become so paranoid over the years, so demented, that not a day went by that he didn’t regret what he had done.

It had been her, his beautiful, disloyal, double-crossing wife waiting at the bottom of the trek. His emotions had been so knotted, he knew not whether to kiss her or take the shovel to her head too. Fortunately for her, he chose the former. He vowed at that precise moment that he would never tell her, not understanding that things could never be the same, not understanding the pain that accompanies such secrets.

He held her tightly, while the rhythm of the shovel sinking into the dirt echoed in his mind.

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