He looked at me quizzically, no doubt trying to make sure I was dead. He stepped into the grave, straddled me and stuck the blade into my chest two times fast. Within seconds, despite the darkness, I saw the three-inch long blade. He mumbled something to himself, slapped the gun barrel twice, then pulled the trigger three more times. I heard no gunfire, only the deadened click of a pistol that had jammed. But digging a grave by hand is hard work.” Should’ve put her in the ground.” I heard the cock of the hammer. “I made a mistake with the girl,” he muttered. I was able to see him raise the gun and point it at me. The only light was from the moon, which was slowly being shrouded by smoky, fast-moving clouds. It was somewhere in the middle of the night. Out of my right eye, if I squinted, I could see, barely. My head ached and my left eye had swollen to a point where vision was impossible. I tried to raise my arms to protect myself, but I was so weak from digging I couldn’t. He hit me three more times in the head, twice over my left ear and once directly over my forehead. I did, but no more than five seconds after I handed him the shovel, he raised it and swung it into my face. “Give me the shovel,” he said desperately, his breathing as heavy as my own. Had he said it took me four hours or thirty minutes, I would have believed him either way. I can’t remember how long it took because I was so petrified with fear that I lost all track of time. Too narrow for a coffin, but just right for a body. He had me stop digging at what seemed like three feet deep and two feet across.

So I wouldn’t scream, he put duct tape over my mouth, not that I would have been able to utter even a peep, my throat was so dry. I wasn’t sure if he was going to bury me alive or kill me first, but I knew that one way or another the grave I was digging was my own.

Colder Than Death by D.B. Gilles