Just Like On TV

A young boy. Sat. Eyes fixed to the screen in front of him. His dark, brown, well cared for hair being illuminated by the light. His blue eyes are like a projector screen for the images in front of him. The young face. Round. Clean. No older than 10 gazing into a minefield of information. The illumination is particularly bright because of the lonely black behind him. The screen punctured the darkness and forced the boy’s eyes to stare, wide, like a fly to a lamp. Transfixed to the gleam.

The film is something that shouldn't bombard a child’s eyes, mind, body. The film is something gross contortionary, images of destroying nature, images of pain and torture. But not yet. The boy, at this point, is watching a film of a boy and his dad. The dad wants to play a game. The dad bury’s his son in the corner of the garden. Goes back after a short time and the boy is praised with love and all the good things as his family were so worried about him. But the boy isn’t …

He turns the TV off, he is inspired.

The boy excitedly stands and runs to the back door. He is always alone. This will fix it. Right. He places his hand onto the plastic door handle. It is cold. The night air is creeping in under the door like a thousand eyes coming to watch him. Climb his ankles, tickle the back of the neck. The grasp makes the gaze stronger. He pushes. His arm aching for no reason. The gaze fleas to leave his with his long, lone garden.

One, two, three, four. Slow steps creeping along the grass. Compressing it with each step. Five, six, seven, eight. A trail behind the small boy’s footsteps. He feels so cold. The freezing air surrounding himself. Frostbite crawling up his toes. Slowly eating away at the boy. The door to the shed opened. Hitting the window. Loud in the wind. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. The shovel hanging on a hook. Nothing near it. All alone. Rusty and used.

Turn.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. The corner of the garden was covered by a tree. It was dark. Secluded. Perfect. Seventeen … twenty … twenty-three. There. Perfect. The cold air blowing over his shoulders. Dig, two, three, four. He grabbed his cold phone out of his pocket to call his friend. Dig, six, seven, eight. He throws his phone on the floor with his friend on speaker. Dig, ten, eleven, twelve. He tells him he has a game, asks if anyone in his house is up, asks if he could come over quickly. Dig, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. He’s on his way. The boy is done.

“What’s the game?” his friend said

“OK, so i’m going to get into this hole and then you fill the hole with the dirt here” the boy said

“Isn’t that dangerous?” the friend said

“No, i’ll prove it, you go straight home when your done then ill chase after you.” the boy said

“OK” the friend said.

One pile above another of dirt. Compressing the boy. His chest. His lungs. He didn’t care. He cleared a space for his mouth. He was laughing about it. One more, and another, and another. Dirt, earth, weeds, piled above him. Slowly the hole was filed. Slowly he was covered. Covered in cold, wet earth. Wet gloopy mud. Frosty winds above. The friend shouted to the boy that he was going home. It’s hard to hear when you’re six feet below ground. It’s hard to speak when you’re six feet under. People don’t normally need to breathe down here.

The boy is feeling the ice cold eyes creeping up his spine once again. Watching him. Gliding their way up his spine. Warning him. All of them. Starting in his toes. As the feeling went up his legs the boy started to scream. But silence. It got to his stomach and he started to move. The wind was making all the trees ruffle. A whisper in his ear.

Children digging their own graves. Just like on tv.