Colder Than Death

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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.

He made me dig at gunpoint. 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. He had me stop digging at what seemed like three feet deep and two feet across. Too narrow for a coffin, but just right for a body.

I can’t remember how long it took because I was so petrified with fear that I lost all track of time. Had he said it took me four hours or thirty minutes, I would have believed him either way.

“Give me the shovel,” he said desperately, his breathing as heavy as my own.

I did, but no more than five seconds after I handed him the shovel, he raised it and swung it into my face. I fell into the hole, on my back. He hit me three more times in the head, twice over my left ear and once directly over my forehead. I tried to raise my arms to protect myself, but I was so weak from digging I couldn’t. My head ached and my left eye had swollen to a point where vision was impossible. Out of my right eye, if I squinted, I could see, barely.

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