January 1, 2020: Running Up That Hill
“Running Up That Hill” by Meg Myers from self-created mix Coveralls
(from hubbardpark.blogspot.com)
“Look. At. Me.”
It comes out as a hiss. Not at all what I was hoping for. I want him to hurt. I want him to notice and I want him to feel the pain. I want my voice to have an authority. I want to thunder and boom. Instead it hisses.
“Look…Look at what you’ve done.”
Even saying that has me winded. I feel like screaming in frustration.
But somehow it works. I’m wavering in his doorway, practically shaking. Soaked. I wanted to fill the frame, to look like the devil come for a visit. Instead I’m more like Charlie Brown’s Christmas Tree. Barely a wisp, barely hanging on.
And yet he still cringes.
“Baby. Baby.”
It’s a whisper. It’s all he can muster. Not even an excuse. Just baby. He never called me baby. Ever.
I have him spooked. It should feel triumphant but all I can think is, “Baby?”
As in “who the fuck are you calling Baby?”
As in who, “who the fuck else have you been calling Baby?”
Instead I stumbled forward. The Earth lurches but I stay on my feel somehow. I must look like I’m moving in Claymation all herky jerky and unsettled.
He squeaks. I swear to god, he squeaks.
My tongue is a block of wood in my mouth. Huge and useless. My lungs burn with effort. My throat spasms without warning. I still force the words out.
“Remember me?” I groan and crack a smile.
I’m not sure action movie funny is a move that works on me, but I’m barely thinking never mind thinking straight. I’m broken all over, caked with blood and dirt. I don’t know how long I was gone but I haven’t eaten in that time. All I’ve drank was the dirty run off I slurped off the bouquet I found next to the plot. I bet he left it. Bet he thought he was being so very cute.
Asshole.
He is quickly babbling. The tumble of excuses and apologies is nearly overwhelming. But this isn’t like he was late for something or I overheard him talking to some woman on the phone. It’s considerably harder to explain away the time he beat me into unconsciousness and buried me alive in a shallow grave.
I consider letting him keep talking. I confess a certain morbid interest in what rationalizations he’ll dream up. Standing is increasingly difficult though and I really don’t think it serves my plan or my staying alive to collapse in front of him.
So instead I roar. Loud. Words are still challenging but it turns out I give good roar even dehydrated and in agony.
He stops.
I toss the shovel across the floor towards him. The wooden handle thumps nicely first than the metal gives a satisfying ting. I honestly just grabbed it from behind the shed to use like a crutch but it works even better as a prop.
“Wha?!” he whispers. It just occurs to me this might be the shovel he buried me with. I choose to interpret this as a sign my brain is unfogging and not focus on how long it took for me to come up with this relatively obvious idea.
“Use it,” I croak, “Dig.”
He expresses confusion again. I roar again. He scrambles to his feet. I wonder how much longer he will buy me as dangerous, not barely holding on.
I lurch towards him and he nearly shrieks, grabbing the shovel and heading towards the door in a panic. I consider the fact that he might not even know I’m really alive. He was always superstitious. Maybe he thinks I am some kind of ghost or ghoul.
I lean against the door frame, facing out into the rain. “Dig,” I repeat. He breaks ground while begging me to think clearly about this. He has a point, even if its not the one he thinks. I put together this plan on the walk/crawl from the field to here. I didn’t stop to think how much of it relied on him just agreeing to digging a big hole and lying it while I pushed the dirt on top of him. I am now realizing the big central flaws.
So I improvise.
I herk and jerk myself until I’m nearly atop him.
“Do you want to die?” I groan in a way I hope sounds somehow both hollow and full of earth. The way the recently deceased returned to claim vengeance might sound. You know, if that was a real thing.
“No,” he whispers softly, tears on his face.
He really does believe I am some kind of undead. God, he’s a real piece of work. He is both so arrogant he can’t imagine I survived his plan AND so superstitious he has no problem believing I am supernatural. Hell, that’s a form of arrogance too. He thinks he’s the type of guy smart enough to bury his fiancée in a shallow grave and get away with and the type of guy who inspires such emotion said fiancée would be reborn as a restless spirit.
And to think I was definitely going to marry him until he decided to just kill me and take all my stuff.
“Confess,” I lean in close and whisper. I figure after being unconscious underground for hours and dehydration thing, my breathe surely must smell like death. Might as well use it to my advantage.
He nods, shaking and not making eye contact.
“Now,” I add.
He takes his phone out and I can faintly here the nonemergency dispatcher answer. I must admit I am more than a little annoyed he doesn’t consider being actively haunted by the angry spirit of his late fiancée worthy of emergency status.
He begins to tell them everything. What he did to me. Where he brought me. Why.
As his words begin to compete with his gulping sobs, I slowly fade back to the house. I lock the door. The windows. I take the cordless off the charger. And all my friends laughed at me for keeping a landline, I smirk.
I lay down. I dial 9-1-1. At least I know how to properly evaluate what is an emergency. I let my eyes shut as the operator answers. I grunt, groan, and moan what little I can. When they confirm the address, I let myself slip back to unconsciousness, hoping for the best.
I only briefly regret what my soaked and dirty self must be doing to the comforter. Maybe I’ll just by a new one. I’ve earned it.