Baby on Board

Grave digging is hard work.

The shovel I'd found in the cabin shed is rusty and my hands are dry and cracked from the bitter cold. The bare forest trees hang over me like the claws of devils waiting to drag me down into the ground, down to the burning embrace of hell. If I have to go there, at least I'll be taking him down with me.

We bought the cabin from a coffin maker. A hunched-back old man with spindly fingers and searching eyes. He was supposed to have someone come and collect the remaining three coffins in the shed, but he never did. Lucky for me. The largest of the three was just big enough for my husband's body, almost as if it was made for him. So now he lies, out in the open cold with a trail of blood running down his forehead, having exactly the kind of ramshackle funeral he deserves.

No matter how many times he hurt me, I might never have hurt him. But finding blood in the baby's crib was a wound too far — he had to die. The baby would be fine, I'd see to that. In fact, I could hear him crying quite heartily all the way from here. He would be fine. Now I'd finished digging deep into the ground, and exhausted though I was, I had to grab the hammer and put the lid on him. I bashed each shiny nail in as hard as I could, remembering every time he'd wronged me. When it came to the last nail, I remembered that moment in Little Johnny's room and smashed the hammer into that final nail.

All that was left was to drive him into the ground.

I pushed the coffin with all my might towards the hole in the earth, barely managing to move it an inch with each push. I couldn't fail. Little by little, I strained until every sinew in my arms shivered at the prospect of more pushing. Eventually, the coffin reached the edge of the pit. Just one more time...

I put all of my body into that final movement, watching the coffin tumble awkwardly into the hole, hoping the crash wouldn't break it apart. I lumbered over to look and felt my breath leave me easily for the first time in years. It was done. The coffin was still secure. I afforded myself a moment's repose — I couldn't have continued yet even if I wanted.

After half an hour's rest, too exercised to be bothered by the cold, I pulled myself up and grabbed the shovel, consecrating his grave with the first pile of dirty, worm-laden earth. Goodbye, my love. May you rot in hell. After a few shovels though, my heart froze. The coffin rumbled. With one hard bang, the lid flew off and his blood-stained, furious face rose from the earth like a vampire. I was too weak to move. He grabbed the shovel and pulled me towards him. Throwing the shovel aside, he pulled me into his chest and wrapped his arms tight around my neck. When the initial shock passed, I thought of our—no—my baby and remembered that I could not die here. I had to protect him. I had to live for him. I thrashed around, kicking and punching his cold body with all my strength. It was futile though. He was strong. Too strong. I felt around for something, anything. Eventually something hard and large fell into my grasp.

With one final shove, containing every last ounce of my strength, I rammed the object into his skull. Instantly, his grip slackened. I took my breath back a final time and stumbled to my feet, crawling out of the grave with tears in my eyes. Letting the rock drop from my hand, I turned my head to the night sky and bathed in the white glow of the sombre moon.

"No more, no more." I prayed.

I closed my eyes and let my wishes be carried into the stars. Take me away from here, from him and all the memories. When I felt strong enough, I returned to his grave and stared at him, hesitant to reach in. Slowly, cautiously, I bent down and reached inside, not taking my eyes off his frozen face for a second. As soon as it was in my hand, I retracted my arm like a coiled spring and stepped back. However, when I attempted to dig up the earth again, I felt a crushing sense of pressure spread across my chest. The shovel left my hand and I dropped to my knees, gradually consumed by writhing pain. I tried to catch my breath, but no matter how hard I tried, it escaped me. My vision faded and I felt nauseous.

Then I blacked out.

I woke up in the cabin sitting room, cosily wrapped up in a blanket and warmed by the log fire. My husband's loud voice carried from upstairs. He was shouting. Slowly getting to my feet, I crept over to the hallway to look up through the bars of the wooden handrail. He was in Johnny's room. My blood ran cold — there was a high-pitched scream. Grabbing the poker by the fireplace, my mind was already set. If he'd hurt our son, he was going to regret it. Dashing up the stairs and into the baby's room, poker arm raised, my blood flushed with fury as I saw the cut on the baby's arm and the knife in his hand.

He began to turn to me but it was too late; the metal poker came swinging down onto his skull, causing him to drop to the ground like a severed marionette. I dragged his body out of the room and let it roll down the stairs, before taking it outside and sliding it across the snowy ground, leaving a small trail of blood along the way. I went to grab everything that I needed.

The shovel I'd found in the cabin shed is rusty and my hands are dry and cracked from the bitter cold. The bare forest trees hang over me like the claws of devils waiting to drag me down into the ground, down to the burning embrace of hell. If I have to go there, at least I'll be taking him down with me.

***

"Look, Daddy!"

I lumbered around to the back of the cabin where my little girl, running over to me, took my hand and rolled something into it. It was a nail. Only slightly bent but heavily rusted and pitted.

"It's one of her nails, daddy. I've seen her."

Every year we've come on holiday these past few years, she's spun this yarn about 'the lady putting the man into the ground'.

Of course, it's just a kids imagination. Sometimes though, it does make you wonder.