Blogprov #1
[NOTE: If you don't know what the hell blogprov is, you might want to read this first.]
When your first waking thought of the day is "I fucking hate myself", you just know its going to be a great day. You're hungover, you stink of cigarettes, and when you throw off the covers, you're still in the filthy clothes you were wearing when you got home and there's dirt under your fingernails.
You didn't mean to get that drunk.
You never mean to get that drunk. In fact, you were never going to get that drunk again, you'd sworn. But the extenuating circumstances! You'd shown up that morning with the jacket of your suit just barely covering the fresh coffee stain on your crotch but unable to disguise the vaguely painful mincing steps you took to mitigate the pain of the scalding, only to immediately get called in to see the boss and be told that they were "going to have to let you go," and she was really sorry about it, but they have to cut costs somehow, you know, and the whole time she'd had this fucking smirk on her face. That bitch always hated you.
You walked back to your desk and momentarily contemplated just sweeping everything into the box that was already waiting by the time you got there, but you weren't going to make this easy for them. You took your time, stared at everything, mentally packing and repacking until you'd decided on the optimal packing strategy, and then took your time executing it. By the time that last action figure was tucked into place, the security guard was already waiting to escort you from the building. He didn't try to rush you, but he didn't try to make conversation, either.
You mentally debated the relative merits of plastering him with post-it notes just to see if he'd react, but decided against it.
The best reaction to getting fired, of course, was to get shit-drunk. You'd only been sober a month, anyhow. It wouldn't be that hard to start over, and besides, you deserved it right now. What the hell is a month in the grand scheme of things? So you dumped the box in the trunk of your car, picked a direction, and started driving 'til you hit a bar.
It was about three blocks from your office, and you knew you'd be recognized in a few hours. Okay, fourth bar.
Forty-five minutes of driving later, you said, "Fuck it," and drove back to the third bar you'd passed. It was tiny, and seedy, with duct tape holding the seats together and the only other patron someone probably related to the bartender. "Fuck that, too," you thought, since they'd at least be more concerned with why the hell you were invading their territory than why someone in a suit sans jacket that had been left in the car 'cause it was too fucking hot and thus with an obvious coffee stain on his crotch would be drinking vodka neat at this time of day, when he should theoretically be working and doing his damndest to cover up the fucking coffee stain.
So you ordered your "vodka, neat, please," and you drank it. And more. And, in fact, you kept going until the bartender refused to serve you, which is no mean feat in a place where "on tap" apparently equals "in a can and rendered some degree of cold by the minifridge behind the bar."
You were going to take a cab.
You were going to take a cab, but you realized as you reached for your cellphone that not only was it charging at home, but that you would need the car to pick up your wife from the airport tomorrow morning.
So you would drive slowly and carefully.
Very carefully.
Through a residential neighborhood.
... Through, apparently, many residential neighborhoods.
You were shocked no one heard the impact. You certainly did, and felt it, which made you feel all the more justified in your assertions that you hadn't seen her, there was no way you could have missed her unless she had just darted out, because, after all, you noticed the impact.
But, no one heard it.
At first you thought it might have been a dog, or a bag of trash, or a construction barrel. But it was a girl.
A very small, and now very dead, girl.
"Okay," you thought, "Okay, don't panic. Don't panic. What would a person do who isn't panicking?"
You threw her in the backseat and took off.
The next residential neighborhood you passed through (Christ, how many of these things are there?) had a park. A very, very large park. So you drove in. There was a service road that was labeled "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" but you figured your situation had pretty much authorized you.
You drove as far as the road went into the woods before you stopped and popped the trunk, too drunk to recognize the contradiction as you thanked God you were lazy enough to leave your winter emergency kit in the car year-round. One hand full of a collapsible shovel, you used the other to sling the girl over your shoulder, and started walking.
You had never been one to wander around digging holes, especially while drunk, and certainly not with a shovel so small the blade was barely larger than your hand. You were digging for a very long time, and you found yourself grateful that she was, in fact, so small, as it meant less digging time. Still, by the time you were done, your arms were trembling so hard you couldn't lift her and just ended up rolling her into it. The ribbon fell out of her hair, and you stuffed it in your pocket as you reached for the shovel to push the dirt back in over her. The small blade frustrated you, and you finally ended up on your knees, pushing the dirt in.
Finally finished, it seemed that somehow there wasn't enough dirt, so you dragged some branches and leaves over the spot. You started walking in the direction you hoped your car was in, and as you pulled out your keys to try hitting the lock button on the keychain to use as a locater, the ribbon came with them.
"What the hell am I doing," you thought. "This is evidence. It's like a trophy. Serial killers take trophies. This is sick. I have to get rid of it." But she was already buried, and your arms trembled at the thought of digging her up again.
So you ate it.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Blogprov #1 was based off of a prompt from coleenie.