A marriage ended

A bead of sweat forms on her brow as she struggles with the unwieldy pickaxe, lifting the heavy tool and driving the point into the hard ground over and over again, smashing the baked earth into clods before switching to the shovel to clear the area she is excavating. Hour after hour she toils under the sun, her back crying out in agony, her hands blistered, bloodied, her mind totally focused on the task in hand.

The trench is eight feet long and four feet wide and she swings the pick and pushes the shovel until it is five feet deep, a slit gaping open in the moorland wilderness, a doorway shaped portal to another World. She pauses, taking the already sweat stained rag from her pocket to mop her brow, wipe her hands before she picks up the tools and returns to her car, opening the boot. 

She reaches inside and with an effort that nearly finishes her tired body she pulls the heavy object over the sill and lets it drop to the ground. Grasping it, she pulls the tarp wrapped shape towards the hole, and with a moments pause, pushes the body into the freshly dug grave…


About Autistic writing

Im 46, autistic and vocal about it, a specialist autism mentor in higher education, embarking on my MEd in adult autism, autistic advocate and campaigner, writer and co-founder of asP - the autism strategy partnership #differentnotdamaged #askaboutasP

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