Page 3 of Make Me Hunt
I drag some dirt back over him, then scatter the leaves. I force myself to hold it together as I wipe the mud from my pants and wash my hands in a nearby stream. Ineed to get to the nearest town and buy a shovel. I can’t risk raising suspicions looking like this, and my swollen eyes are already enough to raise questions.
I hate leaving him even for a second, but I have to take him somewhere where he can have a clear view of the sky. That was his biggest wish—to always be able to see the sky.
Reality becomes a blur by the time I reach the town, and I barely manage to stop at a local store and leave with a shovel and a lilac.
It looks less suspicious if I buy the shrub too. Besides, I want to mark the spot somehow. Since I won’t be able to come as often as I’d like to bring flowers to his grave, I’ll plant something that will grow there.
That’s the compromise I have to make, so I won’t risk anyone tying me to the burial spot in case his body ever gets discovered. Which I pray to God never happens. He needs peace after everything he’s been through.
I wait until it gets dark, then check to make sure no one is around. It’s not a very populated area, but there are occasional dog walkers and hikers, so I don’t want to attract attention.
When I’m sure it’s safe, I head to a meadow nearby where Elias is buried. There are no trees here. It’s on top of a small hill, where the sun shines directly above it during the warmer months. So, I start digging. This will be his resting place.
I don’t dig a shallow grave. I dig for hours, deep enough that no one will ever find him and disturb his peace. My muscles are tense, my limbs shaking when I’m done. But I don’t care. The only thought in my head right now is revenge. It’s the only thing still keeping me functioning like a human being. Not that I’m sure I even am one anymore.
When the grave is ready, I return to the pile of leaves covering where Elias lies.
I shovel down to the depth where I remember him buried, then use my hands to dig out his body without hurting him.
I know I can’t really hurt him anymore, but I refuse to accept that he’s truly dead either. I won’t be responsible for a single scratch to his body unless there’s no way around it.
I brush the dirt off his beautiful face again, his pale skin glowing under the bright moonlight, like the damn thing rose just to watch over him.
God, he’s so perfect.
Then I move lower, wiping dirt away from his chest when I think I see something. It’s dark outside, so I need to take out my phone and switch on the flashlight, but I instantly wish I hadn’t. The sight makes my breath hitch. A long burgundy line splits his chest. Clothes ripped, his flesh cut open, and I almost throw up when I see a gaping hole in his abdomen.
I fall back in the dirt, reeling from the shock. I’ve always had the stomach for things like this. But now… now it’s just too much.
I was searching for the cause of his death, but I never expected this.
I can’t fucking breathe. It’s like someone dropped a weight on my chest, and it’s about to smother me to death.
I force myself to inhale and exhale, like I’m trying to make sense of everything, maybe even life itself. My phone fell into the leaves. I fumble for it, slapping my hands aimlessly through the dirt until my fingers finally close around it. I need to find the flashlight again and see exactly what caused his wound.
Rising to my feet, I shine the light back at him. That’s no knife that did this. The cut’s too long, too clean. It slices his chest from his left shoulder down to his right side, deeper than any blade you’d carry on the street. The flesh around isn’t jagged, no hesitation mark, just one strike.
As weird as it might sound, that’s a sword wound.
There’s no way this was an accident.
This is fucking murder.
I search his pockets and clothes for any kind of clue. No personal items on him except his keys and a hunting knife. That’s so strange because he was never the type to carry any weapons around. I mean, we took self-defense classes a year ago, and he was getting better at defending himself. He could hold his own in a fight.
I even pushed him to get a gun, just for safety, but he refused. Said he hated weapons. That’s why the knife makes no sense, especially since it’s a hunting knife.
Then I notice something else. These aren’t his clothes. It’s some kind of black uniform. Cargo pants and a black T-shirt with a white number stamped across it: EIGHT .
I have no idea what the fuck it means. Maybe it’s just a Halloween costume.
I take a picture anyway. As much as it kills me to have the last photo of him like this, I need to keep it. It might matter later.
As soon as I finish checking for clues, I drag his body to the grave I dug for him in the meadow, and gently lay him there, pressing one last kiss to his cold forehead.
“I love you, so fucking much.”
My tears return like a silent cascade of grief and unspoken words, and I start throwing dirt in before I lose the nerve to do it.
