Sweat is literally dripping into her eyes, the sting of salt seeps under her contact lenses. Least of her concerns. Wishing she had some kind of hair scrunchie, even a rubber band, for fuck's sake, she continues to dig.
The work isn't as easy or fast as she thought it would be--the ground a lot tougher, the spade a lot blunter--and she begins to have doubts.
The thing makes a sound: half gurgle, half wimper. The sound is revolting and it renews her sense of commitment to this task: this is her shit and she's gotta deal with it. It's gotta get done and it has to get done tonight.
"This is going to take all night," she mumbles aloud. The thing hears her and wimpers again; trying to appeal to some residual sense of mercy...of decency and she realizes she wore the wrong fucking shoes.
She is suddenly grateful for the fact that she's alone. There's no one to care where she's been, no one to ask about dirt and blood and shit-smeared face. Her son is safe with relatives in another state. Her son must never know about this.
Just a little more. The leak is starting to become unbearable and the wetness is making her nauseated--either the reality of the pain or her mind making things worse with every drip. She may not survive this herself but this fucking thing has got to be disposed of first...it has to vanish, her clothes set to hot/high and her body smelling of Coconut Lime Verbena and herbal shampoo before she'll allow herself to be found, pale-skinned, collapsed over the ottoman, bathrobe soaked from the waist down. They will tell him an accident happened.
It wimpers again and she kicks it, drawing strength from her own resolve against the alternative. This is how it's gotta be.
This fucker is going all the way.
Whoa.
Whoa indeed.
Oh HELL YES.
Damn, girl.
You go, Kat.
Bumping to give :mittens: to this series.