Digging. Digging. Keep digging. No shovel, no trowel, no stick even, just my bare hands. My fingers sift through the dirt, plucking out twigs and pebbles and a random leaf. Down. Down. Deeper.

Suddenly, I sit back down on my heels. I don’t even know why I’m here, why I’m doing this. I mean, I know what just happened, I know what he just did to me, but still, why am I here? Why am I digging this hole?

I reach back down, grabbing dirt by the handful and tossing it behind me. Sitting there is a little toad, just blending with the dirt. Normally I love animals, but today the best I can do is set him to the side.

Just digging. Keep going. As long as my arms can take it. My fingers are getting raw at the tips, red and even beginning to bleed. But that’s nothing compared to the bleeding I’m doing on the inside.

Why? Why me? It’s not fair. None of it is.

I stop digging, observe the hole I’ve made. But now I know. I can’t bury memories, no matter how deep I dig.

I get up and walk away, still hurting.