“Where did you bury it?” she calmly spoke, not taking her eyes off the hole she just dug.
“Why would I lie to you! I already told you I remember leaving it here, exactly three steps away from that willow tree. I don’t – I don’t know why it’s gone,” I pleaded. “You can always try the other direction.”
As I eyed her still, unmoving figure, suddenly I became very aware of the warmth acutely pooling and running down the side of my head.
“I’ll rip you apart with my bare hands, you know,” she stood up and walked to the willow tree. Checking her bearings, she took three tentative steps towards the other direction and plunged the shovel into the earth.
She dug, she dug. And the steel of the shovel crunched into the rotting surface of a long decayed wooden box. She let the shovel fall to the ground, kneeled down and, very gingerly, pried the box out of the black dirt with her right hand.
“Just take it and go,” I cried. No response. She rolled up her empty left sleeve, running her fingers along what was left of her shoulder. She stood up abruptly.
I crawled over obediently. My shredded leg scratched uselessly against the ground as I inched forward.
“Take it out of the box for me,” she commanded. I reached into the box and found my hand around bone pieces, liquefied flesh dripping off them through the gaps between my fingers. I retched at the wet substance and its putrefying smell. I gave her decomposed arm back to her.
She put the end of the bones together, then to her shoulder. It stayed there, somehow. She flexed her skeletal left arm, savouring her renewed life.
“I didn’t mean to do this to you, Anne. I had no choice but to c-cut you up. Let me go, Anne,” I choked.
“Look at me, dear,” she squatted down. Her boney fingers lifted my chin so my pitiful eyes met her empty socket.
“Remember when I said I’d rip you apart with my bare hands?” she smiled.