Atwood and Alden

*Note--This short story contains depictions of violence, mental health struggles, and two expletives. *

Atwood and Alden

1.

“All she did was nag, Atwood. That’s all she did! It drove us both insane. Both of us! So, stop blamin’ me for your actions.”

“It don’t matter!” Atwood screamed into the snowy wind gusting through the frozen woods. “I cain’t believe I allowed you to talk me into that! I cain’t—”

“Hey! Hey, hey. Don’t—don’t yell. There’s no need, so calm down.”

“Calm? CALM? Fuck you, Alden!”

Atwood and Alden exchanged angered glances as they continued their freezing trip back to their cabin in the darkening, snow-covered forest. Both men are cold, dirty, and exhausted. Tensions are high, and paranoia is beginning to creep into the weakened minds of these longtime friends.

Alden, carrying the rusty, bloody, double-headed axe in his hand that was used to cleave in two the head of Atwood’s wife, kept glancing angrily over his left shoulder toward Atwood. A sneering smile was on Alden’s face, but Atwood trailed a few steps behind Alden, so Atwood never saw the maliciousness.

Atwood carries the rusty, dirt-covered shovel used to bury his girlfriend. He is sickened by his actions and makes Alden carry the murder weapon because he no longer wishes to hold the splintering handle. The sound of the wet thud and subsequent cracking of Emily’s skull splitting into two rings through his frazzled mind. Every few feet, Atwood stares burning eyes into the back of his friend’s head. The thoughts that swirl in his brain are those of cruelty.

Emily lay motionless one mile behind the retreating duo. With a bloody canyon in the top of her skull, the ill-fated woman was nestled tightly and buried into a culvert beneath a large outcropping of rocks. As the final shovel full of dirt was thrown atop her, Emily stared lifelessly into the gray, snowy void between two large southern yellow pine trees; a grimace of agony and treachery shocked her beautiful face.

2.

Several quiet minutes had elapsed, and both men tightened their grips upon the tools they carried. The wind gusts harder, the snow falls thicker, Alden continues his devilish leer, and Atwood rues the day.

Atwood thinks back to two days prior: Christmas Eve. He ruminates over the terrible conversation he and Alden shared over a cup of hot chocolate.

“She’s furious with you, Alden. I cain’t help that.”

“You can, Atwood. You most certainly can. She’s furious because she’s jealous of our friendship. That’s all, Atty. That’s all.”

“No. It’s more than that, Alden. You know it. She doesn’t believe anything you say. I don’t think she ever has. I think she thinks you’re a liar, a fraud. I’m sorry that I’m tellin’ you this, Alden,” Atwood released a long sigh and then continued. “I truly am. I know this doesn’t help y’all’s relationship. I know there’s strain. But you have to stay out of her way. If she thinks you’re in her way, she’ll fight with me, not you.”

Unconcerned, Alden watched Atwood’s face as he relayed this information between quick blows into his cup, a futile attempt at cooling down the scalding liquid. Alden doesn’t care about Emily or her perceptions of him. Nor does he care if she thinks he’s a liar. The only thing Alden cares about is seeing the woman dead.

“Atwood? My oldest and dearest friend.”

Atwood looked up from his steaming cup of hot chocolate. “Yeah?”

“You know what you have to do, Atwood. You know what you have to do. We’ve discussed it many, many times. We have.”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Alden! It’s Christmas fuckin’ Eve, man. Lay off!”

“You know I cain’t, Atty. Not until you’ve put that miserable gal to bed. For good.”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Alden. Cain’t we just be peaceful for the holiday? Please?” Atwood mewled. His voice was barely a whisper. Alden perceived the sound of weakness, of frailty. He knew it was only a matter of time before Atwood gave in to the pressure. It was only a matter of time.

“The day after Christmas, then. Since you’re unable to man up and do it today.”

“That’s not fair!” Atwood screamed at Alden.

“Atty? Did you holler for me, hon? Are you feelin’ okay?” Emily asked in a sweet voice from the back of the small cabin.

“Shut. Her. Up. Atwood. I cain’t take hearin’ her whiny voice.”

“Uh, no, Emily. I didn’t. I was talkin’ to—”

“NO!” Alden screamed at Atwood and slammed his fist hard upon the table, causing his sedentary cup of hot chocolate to tremble and clatter. The woeful Atwood was startled by the sudden outburst and spilled a little hot chocolate down the front of his shirt while attempting to take a small sip.

Emily popped her head around the corner and gazed queerly upon her husband for a brief second before disappearing back into the cabin.

“Real cute, Alden. You stupid cow. Real cute.”

“You’ll live, Atty. It’s only a little cocoa and milk. Yinz can wash the stain out.”

“It’s the principle, Alden. All you do is yell anymore. My nerves is frazzled. They’re shot. I cain’t take your stupid outbursts any longer.”

“Atwood?”

“What?”

“You’ll live.”

3.

“Alden… I’m freezin’, Alden. Cain’t we hurry our steps? We still have a mile before home, and I’m freezin’.”

Alden stared into the slate-gray sky and watched as the snow fell. “Stop whinin’, Atty.” He chided. “We’ll be there soon. Besides, this snow ain’t gonna let up for some time. So, think of warm thoughts. In fact, I’ll be nice and whip us up some hot chocolate when we get back. How’s that sound?”

“I hate you, Alden. I hate you more than anything.”

“Atwood?”

“Don’t you dare say it, Alden. Don’t.”

“Atwood?”

“I said no.”

“Atwood…” Alden sang.

“What?”

“You’ll. Live.”

In that moment, three things happened within roughly thirty seconds. Atwood simultaneously screamed and swung the shovel he carried as hard as he could, violently swirling the snowflakes as their descent was interrupted. Once contact was made with the side of Alden’s head, the brain-bashed man fell to the snowy ground and convulsed. Atwood took two steps towards his fallen friend, raising the shovel as high as possible. Over and over, the shovel clanged upon Alden’s skull. Blood and brain matter spewed several feet in all directions. Atwood was fevered.

Once the gruesome onslaught had subsided and the bloody shovel bearer stood angrily above Alden, Atwood stared at the black and red pulp of his former friend’s head.

“I told you not to say it!” Atwood screamed into the blustering winter air. “I told you not to say it!” Uninterrupted again, the snow continued to fall on the duo.

After several minutes of swaying in place, staring at the bloody mess, and watching the steaming blood melt the snow upon which Alden lay, Atwood started walking toward his empty home. He was alone, and his thoughts were not of getting caught. The trio lives four miles outside the nearest town on a large swath of private property. There will be no sheriff coming by any time soon or ever. His thoughts were of loneliness.

4.

With half a mile left in his freezing trek, Atwood started to cry. He cried for Emily. He cried for Alden. But mostly, he cried for his own soul. Atwood committed deeds so foul he knows the Good Lord will not call him Home when the time comes.

“Now I’m lonely.” Atwood sniveled and wiped the freezing tears off his face. His nostrils dripped and ran slimy rivers into his burly mustache, but the man didn’t feel the ooze since the protuberance was numb.

“Great job, dummy. Now you’re all alone. You’re lonely. You’re lonely.” Atwood spoke aloud as he trudged through calf-deep snow. Hearing his voice helped soothe his fears.

After five minutes, Atwood stopped walking and held his left hand over his eyes. Staring to the west (his left), watching the tree line of the darkening forest, Atwood thought he spied movement through the sizeable snowflakes. The fatigued man continued north once he convinced himself no one was there.

Twenty more minutes had elapsed, and Atwood could barely perceive his cabin’s outline through the plummeting snow. The southern pines towering around his domicile are all planted in neat rows. Behind one of these dark sentinels loomed a figure watching Atwood.

“Who’s there?” Atwood yelled out to the shadowy figure. No answer.

“I’ve got a shotgun!” Atwood yelled out and held the shovel above his head. “Show yourself.”

After several worrying seconds, the shadow failed to do as instructed. Atwood gathered his wits and took several laborious steps forward, holding his shovel like a shotgun. His heart was palpitating quickly, more for the exertion of shuffling through the snow than the possibility of a man standing in the distance. Determinedly, Atwood was heading straight for the shadowy figure when he realized it was only the stovepipe he had installed on the side of his smokehouse. The thick snow and large pine hid the smokehouse from Atwood’s vision.

“Jeez, Atwood. Fraidy cat. Get a grip, old boy.”

Passing the smokehouse, Atwood could clearly see his front door. It was inviting, the warmth he knew would be inside his small but well-built cabin.

Having left Alden and the double-headed axe one mile back, Atwood heaved the bloody shovel far away from the front stoop of his cabin. He no longer had the stomach to look at the frozen lifeforce of his best friend adorning the rusty tool.

The shovel made contact with a thick wooden cross jutting haphazardly out of the snow, and as the metallic sound of the blade hitting wood rang aloud, Atwood stared at the names carved into the crosses. Twenty-three crosses adorn the makeshift graveyard that sits directly off the eastern side of the small front porch. Atwood has dug every one of them throughout the years.

“I’ll clean you come spring,” Atwood said to the shovel, staring at the slight depression where it lay at the base of the cross in the snow, cold, alone, and discarded, just like Atwood. But Atwood’s actions were his own, unlike the innocent shovel that was a mere tool used to commit a foul deed.

Atwood’s attention was drawn to the sound of his cabin’s front door opening. He looked down at his hands, shoved deep into his coat pockets, searching for any warmth they could find. That’s odd, he thought. I ain’t openin’ my door.

Nonplussed, Atwood looked up and made deep eye contact with Alden, whose head was clean and free of brain matter and busted chunks of skull. Alden stood leering in the doorway, wearing the same clothes he had on earlier but clean instead of dirty and bloody. In his outstretched hand was a cup of steaming hot chocolate. “Twenty-four now? Huh. Well, I told you I’d make us some cocoa, Atty.”

The End