Untitled
By
Alex Hoeft
Again.
The screech of an owl.
I claw at the ground. Six minutes. The soil beneath my skin is cold, always cold; grit building under my nails as I scrabble through the loosely packed earth. My hands are fish-belly white beneath the moon, and my breath seesaws in and out, serrating my airways.
All around me is silence, the forest a rapt audience.
Five minutes. The swoosh of my fingers against nylon fabric. I exhale sharply through clenched teeth. I’m ahead of schedule; I dig faster. The body begins to take shape beneath the earth. I scrape back soil from the chest, the face; clumps skittering, pooling in the hollow of the throat and the tear wells of each open eye, between the slightly parted lips.
I can’t get distracted again. I can’t be lured in by the mask of death, mesmerized by the way the final throes loosened jaw and limbs into something slack and left wanting. In those other instances, I remained transfixed until time ran out.
Now, I focus. This time has to work. I know if I free the torso, I can pull. If I manage a firm grip, I can drag the body out of its shallow grave. If, if, if. Four minutes, three minutes. I've done this enough to know my internal clock is precise.
I force my hands under the shoulders, my heels digging into the ground on either side of the unhallowed plot. I pull, and the body comes, heavy and pliant in my arms. It’s too soon for rigor mortis.
Around me, tree trunks slant and branches reach in the direction of the road. Two minutes.
Still, there are obstacles. The weight of the body, the tree root I always trip over, my frantic breaths. The span between death and beyond can never be easy.
The forest thins the closer I get. A black ribbon, wet ink in the moonlight, runs horizontal across the landscape. The road. One minute.
The road means the car and the car means my chance. I need the driver to bear witness that I was here. That I am here—this shell of myself, at least. If I can’t drag my body to the road, where the oncoming headlights surely won’t miss, my time is up, and I’m doomed for another round. A soul forever seeking permanent peace in consecrated ground.
And so, I pull.
I hear the car rounding the bend. The same car every time, the same countdown, the same situation. Every time. Thirty seconds.
Feet slipping on decaying leaves, I tug my body up the embankment, shifting my grip again, then again, seeking the most efficient hold. A glance over my shoulder—darkness and gloom frame the car’s headlights as they move closer. I’m nearly to the pavement now. I have the time, I have the time, Ihavethetime.
My grasp slips and the corpse’s clammy fingers slide through my own. I scream in frustration, clutching at air. I can’t keep doing this.
Twenty seconds.
I grab hold once more.
Fifteen seconds.
I strain backward, arms embracing my body’s trunk.
Eight seconds.
The ground vibrates with the vehicle’s approach.
Five.
I turn, flinging my corpse forward, hoping it's close enough to the pavement to catch the driver’s eye; a pale crumple of human limbs by the side of a road in a lonely, dark forest.
One.
The car streaks by, phantom-like, white headlights blurring to red taillights. Driver unaware of my need. I wail, my body a forgotten and battered marionette at my feet.
Then, darkness.
Again.
The screech of an owl.
I claw at the ground. Six minutes.
Alex Hoeft is an award-winning news reporter covering the Lake Tahoe region in California and Nevada. Her short story fiction work has been published in literary journals. When she's not writing for work or fun, she's wrangling her toddler or reading a book — or doing both at the same time. Visit www.ahoeft.com to learn more.
By
Alex Hoeft
Again.
The screech of an owl.
I claw at the ground. Six minutes. The soil beneath my skin is cold, always cold; grit building under my nails as I scrabble through the loosely packed earth. My hands are fish-belly white beneath the moon, and my breath seesaws in and out, serrating my airways.
All around me is silence, the forest a rapt audience.
Five minutes. The swoosh of my fingers against nylon fabric. I exhale sharply through clenched teeth. I’m ahead of schedule; I dig faster. The body begins to take shape beneath the earth. I scrape back soil from the chest, the face; clumps skittering, pooling in the hollow of the throat and the tear wells of each open eye, between the slightly parted lips.
I can’t get distracted again. I can’t be lured in by the mask of death, mesmerized by the way the final throes loosened jaw and limbs into something slack and left wanting. In those other instances, I remained transfixed until time ran out.
Now, I focus. This time has to work. I know if I free the torso, I can pull. If I manage a firm grip, I can drag the body out of its shallow grave. If, if, if. Four minutes, three minutes. I've done this enough to know my internal clock is precise.
I force my hands under the shoulders, my heels digging into the ground on either side of the unhallowed plot. I pull, and the body comes, heavy and pliant in my arms. It’s too soon for rigor mortis.
Around me, tree trunks slant and branches reach in the direction of the road. Two minutes.
Still, there are obstacles. The weight of the body, the tree root I always trip over, my frantic breaths. The span between death and beyond can never be easy.
The forest thins the closer I get. A black ribbon, wet ink in the moonlight, runs horizontal across the landscape. The road. One minute.
The road means the car and the car means my chance. I need the driver to bear witness that I was here. That I am here—this shell of myself, at least. If I can’t drag my body to the road, where the oncoming headlights surely won’t miss, my time is up, and I’m doomed for another round. A soul forever seeking permanent peace in consecrated ground.
And so, I pull.
I hear the car rounding the bend. The same car every time, the same countdown, the same situation. Every time. Thirty seconds.
Feet slipping on decaying leaves, I tug my body up the embankment, shifting my grip again, then again, seeking the most efficient hold. A glance over my shoulder—darkness and gloom frame the car’s headlights as they move closer. I’m nearly to the pavement now. I have the time, I have the time, Ihavethetime.
My grasp slips and the corpse’s clammy fingers slide through my own. I scream in frustration, clutching at air. I can’t keep doing this.
Twenty seconds.
I grab hold once more.
Fifteen seconds.
I strain backward, arms embracing my body’s trunk.
Eight seconds.
The ground vibrates with the vehicle’s approach.
Five.
I turn, flinging my corpse forward, hoping it's close enough to the pavement to catch the driver’s eye; a pale crumple of human limbs by the side of a road in a lonely, dark forest.
One.
The car streaks by, phantom-like, white headlights blurring to red taillights. Driver unaware of my need. I wail, my body a forgotten and battered marionette at my feet.
Then, darkness.
Again.
The screech of an owl.
I claw at the ground. Six minutes.
Alex Hoeft is an award-winning news reporter covering the Lake Tahoe region in California and Nevada. Her short story fiction work has been published in literary journals. When she's not writing for work or fun, she's wrangling her toddler or reading a book — or doing both at the same time. Visit www.ahoeft.com to learn more.
