My hands were submerged nearly to my elbows in soapy dish water. This was my least favorite chore, but at least the water felt warm on my skin. I remember scrubbing a plate vigorously with a textured sponge, and kicking myself for leaving them so long.

It was partially my boredom with the task at hand, partially my curiosity that had been building for the last several days at the smell that had slowly been getting stronger emanating from the crawl space. It was a terrible smell. The only way I could describe it was noxious, nauseating, headache inducing, yet almost sweet. My husband told me a critter had died under the house, and he’d take care of it, but the smell was getting stronger. I felt I had to take care of it myself because the smell was nearly unbearable.

I gave my hands three good shakes over the sink to whip off the excess water, and grabbed the dish towel and dried them the rest of the way, chucking it haphazardly back toward the counter.

I walked across the room, relaxed, with my hands resting on my hips to investigate the crawl space. I crouch just outside the small broom closet that houses the opening to get under the house and lifted the linoleum covered hatch that matches the rest of the kitchen and set it on the floor. I placed my hands down to brace myself and laid on my stomach.

This next part I remember vividly, it will be burned into my memory, replaying for the rest of my short life. I poked my head down in the hole and saw nothing but dirt and darkness under the house with a couple spots of light from the outside poking through. I craned my head as far as my neck would allow to both sides and saw more of the same. I popped out of the hole, to my feet, but still crouching. I swiveled so my back was facing the opening to the crawl space, and put one leg, then the other down until I hit solid dirt. I crouched again a did the same pivoting motion and didn’t see anything until I did a full 180 and all I see in the darkness are the top of a head with dark brown, long hair resting on an arm that looks limp and unnatural.

“All I wanted was a lazy Sunday, but now I have to kill you.” Is the next thing I heard. My husband’s voice. I hadn’t even heard him come in.

I looked up in confusion and the last thing I saw before I woke up in this wood box was my husband and the shovel in his hands about to connect with my face.

I tried banging on the top but every time just let in more and more dirt. Screaming was no use, though I screamed and yelled until I couldn’t anymore. The air eventually started to feel different, thinner, harder to breathe. Each inhale became more laborious, and my eyelids started feeling heavy.

~~~~~~~~~

I try to fight as long as I can, but no one is looking for me, I can’t claw my way out. My eyes droop and it’s trying harder to open them again. I can’t fight the urge to sleep any longer, and hope that when I wake up this will have all been a bad dream.