It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through 3 feet of snow because, much to my dismary, bodies don’t burry themselves.

Her burnt corpse eminates steam as I drag her through the snow. It really was an accident. But not like the sheriff would believe me about that one.

I maybe pushed her toward the fireplace and her dress maybe caught on fire. It’s not my fault she was pushing my buttons.

I grunt as I look around the woods. It’s all white and black trees. We come to a big tree in the middle and I grab my shovel. I removed the snown until I can see the ground, then I lie her down. I dump the snow back ontop of her and exhale, relieved.

She’ll be bones by the time the snow melts.

I drag my shovel and trek through the snow as I hear the soft cooing of an owl.