6 Feet Under

Awesome and spooky! I had a lot of fun with the prompts :D

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So… I’m burying a body. It was inevitable. It was fate.

I kept a memento because… I wanted to make sure I didn’t end up like them, you know? Crushed by a truck, just like that… I kept a bolt.

As I wipe my hands, I feel tense. Like the dirt is still there, somewhere inside. Bad luck in my veins. Cursed.

Did I hear my name? Hello? Huh… nobody there…

I question my guilt because… well, I was the one who joke about them running down that street in the middle of the night… but they went there on their own, down that street, in the middle of the night… so, deep down, I’m not really responsible for stupidity, am I?

I whisper a prayer and feel relieved. I mean, I’m doing things right. Everything I can and should do. It had to end like this — quietly.

Did that body just twitch? No way. It’s dark and I’m tired.

I wipe my hands again because I’m a bit tense and I think I’m sweating.

Right, time to finish this. I felt rushed when I decided to bury the body, as if a life marked by so much bad luck had to be erased as quickly as possible, now that it was over. I still feel the same way.

I think I smell perfume. I shovel a good layer of dirt over the whole thing, just to be sure.

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So, I’m burying a body. At the foot of this creepy lighthouse; that should do the trick.

Hiding the evidence made me feel powerful. It was the right thing to do: burn those photos along with them. One identity revealed, another preserved.

I decided to bury the body, yet I felt a pang of remorse. Deep down, I wanted the whole ugly fact about what kind of person they really were to come out. But I suppose I have to protect my truth too — even if it means giving them a bed of earth instead of letting them rot in plain sight, as they deserve.

Or should I? Let them rot out in the open? Perhaps I shouldn't have gone near them in the first place. Now I moved them, I touched them, I’m bound to them for the eternity of their death. I have to make sure no one ever finds out: not about their crime, and not about mine.

What was that flashlight? A photographer?? Here??? Of course—it had to be a photographer. There I am, burying the blackmailer who threatened to leak photos of me, and suddenly a picture of my ugly mug — disheveled, shovel in hand — gets snapped by some night-owl photographer who, apparently, has a thing for lighthouses... I guess there’s only one thing left to do if I want to skip jail?