Put Down
07 Jul 2021Today’s prompt: “Identify a powerful and significant personal experience from your past (the birth of a younger sibling, breaking your arm, a family road trip, divorce). Then change the setting, and write a story in which your narrator encounters that experience.” [This is based loosely on the experience I wrote about here, incorporating a few key details.]
I made the mistake of looking into your eyes as you were dying. Now I have to live with that. But it’s done. It’s done. My hand is shaking as I put my gun away.
“You never forget your first one,” Jake says. “Go get the blanket. Leave the trunk open.”
I walk to the campground parking space. We chose the woods so anyone nearby would think the gunshot was from hunters. I open up the trunk and take out a rolled up blanket. As I walk back to Jake, he’s smoking a cigarette.
“You can get the legs,” he says. “I’ll get the head.” It’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever done for me.
I unroll the blanket next to the body, and we both unfold the corners. Then I grab your shoes as Jake picks you up under the arms, and we lift you onto the blanket. We pull the edges over you.
I haven’t even left my crouch position when I feel the urgent need to throw up. I turn my head and retch. It’s mostly acid. I’ve barely eaten all day.
Jake gives an annoyed little sigh, walks to the car, and hands me a rag and a bottle of water. I wipe my face, then stand up and walk around, gargling and spitting water before finally drinking the rest of the bottle. By the time I’ve composed myself, Jake has kicked dirt and pine needles over my vomit and is stationed next to your feet. I walk over to where your head is. We pick up the corners of the blanket and walk to the trunk.
A few feet from the car, your hand flops out of the blanket. I stifle a scream, letting only a small “eek!” escape. I can sense Jake rolling his eyes, and I flatten my features into a solid poker face. We lift you up into the trunk, and Jake shuts the lid.