He made me bury my mother. I remember how the shovel towered over head. Its rough surface left splinters in my palms. With every strike of my shoe onto its metal shoulders the hole grew deeper with sin.

He ignored the pitiful sobs that left my lips as he leaned against his taxi's hood, cigar in hand. Ringlets of smoke formed everytime he parted his fat bitten lips, eyes never leaving the fragile body that struggled to fulfill the task of digging a grave.

I don't remember how many feet I dug, nor how many hours I spent; however, the limp sight of my mothers beaten body was cauterized in memory. As was the sickening sound of her dead weight collapsing into the hard Earth of the shallow grave-

// Coming soon; it will be a full on story, thought a name is needed. Any ideas? Comment them please, guys!