The Shovel

The way the shovel resonated as it hit Tom’s jaw, it sounded so beautiful, like a church bell on Sunday morning. Tom’s feet left the ground as he sailed back, motionless through the air. He hit the ground exactly three feet from where he had left it, the impact jolting him back to consciousness. He looked up to see Chris, standing over him, the sun against his back.

Chris took a stop toward Tom, his foot crushed the snow, and stopped against the frozen ground. He had no emotion in his face, just an empty stare where there used to be a man who had a choice. Chris had no choice, not now, his anger had already gotten the best of him. He either had to finish this, or he had to live with the guilt of starting something he didn’t finish.

Tom’s eyes were as wide as they could be, with the sun, the blood, and the fear of Tom. The last thing he saw was the sharp side of that shovel cutting through the air, whistling towards his head.

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