I hate that shovel now. Every time I walk past it my stomach twirls into a tight knot and I smell it again. I never knew before that snakes had a scent, but they do. I'm not sure if it's their venom or the oils in their scales, but it's distinct, piquant, and makes me want to vomit. Not that it's a particularly repulsive smell in itself. I would have never even noticed it as extraordinary from the other aromas of the desert prior. But now, for me, it's the smell of murder. It's the smell that goes along with the struggle and rush I felt as I used all the weight and muscle force I could muster in my body to drive the shovel into the neck of that abdomen-slithering being. It's the fear that seeped from its eyes and fangs as it struggled to simultaneously escape from my death hold and catch its breath. It didn't succeed in either.
It didn't get to breathe life any longer. With gritted teeth and a sweaty brow, I took that right away. Although my motives were just by human standards, by serpentine regime I selfishly assassinated the innocent. And I'm torn on how I feel about that. I'm torn like the cervical flesh of my victim.
And will his ghost get its revenge? Or his brother? I carefully examine my steps just in case, and in the dark I carry a flashlight. Sometimes the beams of light illuminate the shadows of the side of the shed. And I see it. I hate that shovel now.
