Erik

The rain pounded against his blistering hands, cooling the fresh sores. It was hard to breathe; his asthma was pushing his lungs to their extreme, making him force deep painful gasps of air and water droplets. His boots sank into the soft  mud as he dug the rusty spade deeper into farm soil. The wood handle stabbed his fingers with small splinters, the shaft threatening to snap at any moment. He heard the barn door creak open in the distance and saw his father trudging across the field, his face twisted into a scowl. He only needed to dig a few feet deeper.

His father reached him before the shovel stabbed the earth a third time. Without saying a word, the man dropped the large burlap sack he was bearing and ripped the shovel from his son’s hands. He started removing large quantities of mud, leaving small craters in the makeshift grave. The boy scrambled out of the rectangular hole and collapsed on the ground, tearing at chest, praying for oxygen. Water pooled in the cavities of his closed eyes and trickled down the back of his throat. He could feel unconsciousness only minutes away, the dark cloud of oblivion on the edge of his brain.

He turned his head to the left, feeling wet dirt absorb into his hair, his scalp, pebbles grated against his neck. He saw the cold, cold hand that had fallen out of the burlap sack. The fingernails were painted a cherry red, but the skin was tinged blue and wrinkled, almost shrunken against the thin bones.

The father heaved himself out of a deep grave and grabbed the dead body with rough hands. He dragged her over to the side of the grave. He crouched and pulled back the fabric, revealing a woman’s face: small, pretty at one time, but contorted with horror and stained with blood. Her faded orange hair was all over her face. The green, glassy eyes were clouded over, like mist rolling over a field.

A sick smile pulled at the corners of the father’s mouth as he kicked the body into the pit with no remorse. Erik watched in disgust and horror. He did that to her, he’s why she’s dead. He was the reason for the bruises, her sorrow, and her pain. At least now she can no longer feel any of that. Malachi turned and frowned at Erik.

What’re you lookin’ at, boy?

Erik bowed his head and mumbled something under his breath. He shuffled towards the mound of earth, the shovel lying idly beside it. His toe rolled over a stone, making him stumble, instinctively reaching out for his father’s arm. Malachi grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him to his feet.

What’re you, stupid? Get shovellin’.

Erik wanted answers from Malachi. He had made up his mind, and he would push until he heard a sufficient answer. But Erik was always an optimist.

Why are we burying her?

Malachi grunted with impatience. Because she was taking up space in the meat locker. Shovel.

No, I mean, why is she dead?

It was the only time that Erik dared to question his father. He wanted an answer, a reason for Malachi’s actions.

It doesn’t matter. She never wanted you anyways. She never liked you.

Erik stopped. He stared into the cold, steely eyes. That’s not true. It was always Erik and his mother against Malachi, always. He was her strength when she couldn’t pick herself up off the floor after a beating. She used to read to him. She was his mother, and Erik would never forget that. Malachi was the poison. He was the one that should be lying dead in the ground.

I said shovel. Now.

Adrenaline pumped through Erik’s blood, feeding his intense hatred for the monster before him. His finger wrapped around the spade handle but he had no intention of returning to the pile of dense mud. Malachi had turned his back, glaring towards the trees instead of his raging son.

Water seeped into Erik’s boots as he made small steps towards his father, his heart set on delivering as much pain as possible to bring down this beast he once called a father. His numb fingers clenched the shovel tighter as he slowly raised it near his head. He swung as hard as his scrawny arms could muster.

A dull ringing echoed through the heavy blankets of rain as the shovel connected with Malachi’s ear. He stumbled backwards, clutching his bleeding temple with pale fingers, disoriented. He roared with anger, eyes wide and murderous. But Erik was bloodthirsty, vengeful…angry. He raised the shovel like a spear, and brought it straight down on his father’s leg. The edge of the metal blade broke through the weather-worn skin, slicing into the muscle.

Malachi screamed in agony, collapsing into a kneeling position. His greasy hair hung in curtains around the twisted, trembling face. He spat obscenities at Erik, cursed him, and demanded that he stop.

Erik’s fingers started to shake, his once burning hatred started to slowly seep away, bringing back his asthma. He began to panic, lungs burning. This is not good. Malachi was temporarily paralyzed with a throbbing agony weaving its way through his body, and Erik was panicking.

What now?

He’s on the ground, he’s bleeding. What do I do now?

Malachi blindly lunged for Erik’s foot in an attempt to pull him down to the soggy earth. He leapt back in astonishment, a small, high-strung yelp escaping through his quivering lips. Malachi bellowed again, but this time he was enraged.

He began to crawl on the ground, slithering like a broken snake. Blood smears on the side of his face darkened his expression further, covering his cheeks, lips, eye, teeth. Elbows and knees sank into the muddy ground, making his motions slow and lopsided. His hair clung to the blood-covered face, wrapping around his sunken eyes and crooked nose. Saliva dribbled down his stubble ridden chin, oozing through the bared, rotted teeth. Another growl ripped through his entire body, shaking his face and arms, but not his eyes. His black, beady eyes were dead set on Erik. He began to limp faster along the ground, gaining a terrifying speed against Erik’s useless stumbling steps.

The shovel was a dead weight in Erik’s hand, the spade dragging along the earth, slowly digging into puddles. It wasn’t until the second time that Malachi reached for his legs that the sense of self defense found its purpose once again. Out of alarm, Erik raised his foot to push Malachi away, but a mud-covered hand grabbed his ankle and refused to let go. Erik screamed, shaking his foot, trying to rid his ankle of Malachi’s stubborn claws. Erik tried to jump away, but his balance instantly vanished. The shovel fell in front of him, inches away from his fingertips. As he fell he landed on his hip, feeling a small crack reverberate up his right side. But he had no time to worry about that.

It was a mad scramble for the rusty spade. Malachi, strong but injured, attempted to overpower Erik by crawling over top of him and pinned his legs and side to the ground. Erik saw his opportunity and clawed at Malachi’s face with his fingernails, leaving shallow yet painful scrapes along his left jowl.

Malachi stopped.

He stared at Erik.

He glared at Erik.

Viciously.

That cruel, cruel smile once again tugged at the corner of his mouth.