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He found her sprawled across the floor, both arms in either direction. The bullet wound was plain to see. He brushed aside the matted hair to kiss her deathly face, and in so doing made a pact to see the murderer dead.
The rising sun bore over him as he dug the grave. There was no need for pomp or ceremony, so remote was their settlement; but there were no cries as solemn as those that came from the man.
"I will find him," he swore again," and kill him where he stands! You will have peace, and so will I, when his soul burns in hell!"
In farewell he touched the shroud and placed her in the earth. There was silence from the locust tree as witness to his curse.
He found no one lurking within his property, though his search was thorough. It occurred to him that rope and pistol would better serve his aim. He placed them both about his waist and kept his hands at ready, pushing aside the cabin door to see what lay within.
The stained floorboards gave off the expected stench, but there was something else on the air that he did not well recognize. He stooped to wipe away the mess and discovered a broken bottle. The match he lit showed several more. He put them on the table and counted half a dozen, not sure of what role they might have played. They twinkled in the flickering light and were suddenly strangers no more.
"I didn't!" he gasped, as he remembered his drunken stupor. The shards of glass looked up at him and revealed a twisted man.
The trigger he pulled to stop the flooding memory, but his body fell without him and he stood, eyes open wide. He ran into oblivion, still hoping to be dead, and found himself at the locust tree beside the victim's grave.
He cast the rope across the branch and tied himself a noose, intending to hang himself, if he could, and end the torment there.
The wind still catches the kicking ghost that strangles forevermore.

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Bearosity said...
May 27, 2013 at 9:14 pm
I would love feedback!
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