It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don’t just bury themselves. I can feel the cold air prick at the skin on my face, and the tips of my fingers are growing numb against the slicing cold of the metal spade. Scoop after scoop, the endless pile of icy dirt piles up besides the body bags. I’ve been digging for what feels like hours.

Fuck David.

I had grudgingly agreed to digging the grave for the target, but did the trigger happy idiot have to gun everyone else down in the room? Poison I had suggested. It was neater, more efficient. And yet here I am cleaning up his mess once again. The snow fall really is the cherry on top.

Bodies are always heavier than you’d think. Dragging them into each hole is almost as much work as the digging itself, but at least it feels like I’m making some progress. It is two hours until sunrise and I want to be as far away from this place as possible by then.

But soon I’m frozen in my spot, the spade stilled in my whitened hands. A twig snaps close by. A shakey breath is heard between two swaying trees. And I’m reaching for the blade sheathed at my waist, the spade dropping to the floor.

The dirt muffles the thud of the tool but does nothing for the bullet that rips through the air. I don’t even have time to draw my blade before the heat tears through my shoulder. I can feel the moistness of blood spreading through my grey shirt as my body contorts against the blast of the bullet. I land face down, the snow barely softening the fall.

The breathing grows closer as my nails now gravel through the dirt, pulling my body weight desperately away. Ironic, I suppose, being on the other side of this job. I can understand now how bodies grow so heavy seeing how much work it is to pull my own.

The next pain is sharp. Unbearable. An agonising puncture right in between my shoulder blades, like a skewer; a kebab. I am a kebab. What a great way to die. A struggled groan escapes my lips and I swear I can hear my assailant laughing but the ringing in my ears is too loud to be sure.

At this point I would like to reiterate: Fuck David.

The most annoying thing about this is that this person about to kill me could be anyone. I have no mortal enemies or a reoccurring nemesis. My assassin could literally anyone that knew anyone I assassinated myself - or anyone that David had killed too for that matter. This death would be so insignificant. So unspecial. And yet here I am, my rose red blood staining the pure white snow in the middle of a forest because I was stuck digging holes for David.

I let out a gargled laugh and see spots of crimson splutter in front of me. As the knife is pulled from my back, my laugh twists into strangled scream, unfamiliar to myself. And then my world goes black.

Fuck David.