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the handles together to open the blades and thrust them into the ground. You then pull the handles apart to bring the blades together to scoop up the dirt. What you should end up with is a perfectly square hole going straight down.  
    The blisters on my palms were stinging like hot needles. Like a dumbass, I’d forgotten to bring a pair of work gloves. When I was done, I scavenged the area for some twigs and leaves and covered up the now three and a half foot deep hole. I just hoped that some kid didn’t come down here in the few hours I needed it to remain open and break his ankle by stepping in it.
    I wondered if I would be able to find my way back here in the dark of night. I thought for a few seconds and went back to the fence and looked for some large pieces of broken glass. I found an empty bottle of Corona with the bottom shattered off. A circular piece of glass about two inches wide, exactly what I needed. I walked back over and ever so gently placed it upon the twigs and leaves. It would twinkle nicely in the dark should a flashlight happen to pass over it.
    Before exiting back through the missing plank, I kicked the dirt off the posthole diggers and brushed the dirt off my tennis shoes.
    I escaped the retirement village easily enough. I got home as quickly as I possibly could without speeding, all the rush-hour traffic seemingly flowing in the opposing lanes of the highways. I made it back, thankful to have arrived at just a few minutes before seven.
    I changed out of my sweaty, soiled clothes and threw them in with some other laundry I had piled in a basket in front of my closet, dumped it in the washer and then headed for the shower. Once dry, I viciously brushed my hair, removing all the loose strands the metal wires could find. (Though I’d intentionally placed hairs on Jack’s blazer. I still didn’t want any police forensics team, to find too much of my hair, especially on the run I planned to make after I shot him.)
    I was in my room, sitting in front of my desk with an open textbook and a worksheet from my physics class, with a pen in hand when Doris arrived and opened my door. 
    “Hello, I’m home. Have you eaten yet?”
    “Uhhh, no, not yet. . .” I answered without looking up.
    “Well, if you get hungry, there’s some leftover spaghetti in the fridge. I’m sorry, but I’m just not up to cooking tonight. My tootsies are so sore! I’m just gonna lie down and get off my feet.”
    “Okay, Mom.”
    Doris was working full-time at the diner now. Over the years, Jack had been increasingly pooling more of their money into the sex industry and letting his wife pay the price.
    I thought about taking her up on the offer of leftovers. I had skipped lunch at school, but decided it would be for the best if I didn’t have anything sitting on my stomach when I put a large hole in Jack’s head. All the stuff I knew was bound to fly out of his skull would probably make me pretty nauseous and I figured leaving a puddle of puke behind for a forensics team to analyze wouldn’t be to my advantage.
    At eight o’clock, still in her uniform, Doris lay in a heavy, open-mouth sleep with the bedroom TV playing a Who’s The Boss? re-run. I went into my room, grabbed my plastic grocery bag of thrift store clothes from the bottom of my closet and then reached way underneath my mattress to find my new, little six-shooter. I put the gun in one pants pocket and some bullets in the other, and headed out the door to the Nova.
    I gently closed and locked the front door, got into my car and placed the bag on the passenger seat next to me.
    Before I started the vehicle, I sat there for a moment.
    Oh shit! Am I really going to do this? Am I?
    Until that moment, it seemed as though I’d been under a spell the past few days. I’d been telling myself I was going to kill him, but somehow the full comprehension of that idea had never really sunk in until now.
    I could end up in prison for the rest of my life... It could really