1. You need bravery. You need a shovel. You need a patch of ground in the woods. You need a grave far away from any houses, power lines, or water sources. You need a pickup truck with a tarp over the back. You need enough self-preservation not to turn yourself in. But you also need guilt, enough to make the problem go away.
2. You have a body. You don’t need another. Do not repeat this step. You know what you did.
3. The best time to accomplish your task is just after sunrise. You’ve never known an evil morning person, have you? If someone catches you driving home, you’ll say you went for a bright-and-early walk. That’s not something a criminal would do.
4. The dirt will resist you. There will be roots dug deep, clutching tight to the soil. You have to break them. Smash them apart with the blade of your shovel. Push through the frozen earth. Bloody your hands in the process. It’s nothing new.
5. Throw it in. Cover it up. You don’t have time for a coffin.
6. Move along. Hours, days, weeks. Sit at the window and sip your tea. Stare out at the mountains and the fields of dead grey grain. Watch the world slowly fill with poison. Are you sure you picked a place far away from the water?
7. Go to the quarry. Go to the garden center. Buy a stone. Buy a chisel. Buy a bucketload of flowers drenched with color.
8. Carve a gravestone. Leave it lying in your living room with the name exposed when visitors stop by. Be aware that no one will comment on it. No one cares. Shouldn’t you be caught? Why does no one care?
9. Drive back to the woods before the sun is up. Finish your work before light can flood onto your face. Finish your work before you have to see yourself. Dig deep through the dirt with your chisel, till your nails tear out, till your fingers drip dirty water.
10. You have a gravestone. You brought the gravestone with you. Whose name did you carve?
CHOOSE:
10a. You have dug up the body. You place flowers in its hands. You memorialize its name. You leave a love-stone in its place. You put it back in your truck. You drive home as the sunrise spills over the horizon. Is this bravery? Have you finally found your bravery?
OR
10b. You have dug a new hole. You lodge the stone at the top, and the soil stretches up to claim it. You don’t have time for a coffin. You are poison. You are far too close to the water. You throw yourself in. The name is your own, and someone will cover it up.
OR
10c. You have dug yourself free. The dirt parts. Light spills down through the empty space. And you reach upwards. Upwards. You push through the frozen earth. You bloody your hands yet again. You know what you did. This is nothing new. This is the process.
