It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don’t bury themselves.

The wind is freezing cold and relentless, whipping lines of red into my cheeks, the frozen ground crunching with every step. I readjust my grip on the shovel, swallowing back tears as I once again try (and fail) to drive it into the dirt. The weight of what I’ve done runs through me like a fire, though it does little to warm me against the numbness of the autumn chill.

I’ve been out here for what feels like an eternity, digging this godforesaken hole, and it still is nothing more than a dent in the frozen ground. I can dump the body and leave, sure, but the evidence of my crime would remain perfectly preserved by the freezing cold temperatures. Burning is also off the table; I have no way to start a fire, and the smoke would surely attract some unwanted attention.

Of course, I’ve already gained some unwanted attention, haven’t I? That’s why I’m out here, in the middle of the woods, blood staining my hands as I drive the shovel into the ground again and again and again, the thing lying behind me in a heap.

The thing.

Not a person. Not a him, or a her, or a they.

A thing.

A twisted reminder of what I’ve done.

It sickens me, my mind, with the way it’s choosing to think about it all. Acting as if the second the light left those eyes, it became something else, something inhuman. Something monstrous.

The only monster here, though, is me.

If I wasn’t before, I certainly am now. Everyone has their fair share of regrets and mistakes, things they wish so desperately they could take back. I’ve had more than most. And yet, despite my actions, despite my wrongdoings, I had a line. A line that I had never crossed.

Until now.