*Spang!*
Trembling, I gripped the shovel in my hands, not quite realising the enormity of what I'd just done.

I looked down at ex-Mrs PJM, lying out cold on the floor. This was the result of one argument too many, I'd finally flipped out at the relentless taunts, snide comments and outright screaming condemnations of my character and person. One comment had flipped me over the edge and I'd momentarily lost the capacity for reasoned thought and swiftly resolved the situation.

Emotions ran through my mind at a stupifying rate, guilt, rage, shame, remorse, anger... My brain was close to overloading when all of a sudden my thoughts began to coalesce. In instances of extreme stress, the human brain will grasp upon the strangest of notions, jumbled thoughts will become clear as the instinct for survival (oh the irony!) takes over.

Hide the body. Tell no one.

I looked down, she lay on the floor on her front, arms splayed out and face down. I knelt to check the pulse in her neck, just to make sure.

Nothing.

I felt the emotion rise in my throat, choking me. There was no going back, no means of making amends. This was absolutely and utterly final.

Leaving her on the floor, I picked up the shovel and made my way to the garden, where I hurled the blade of the shovel into the ground with all my might. Sobbing, acid tears of self recrimination flowed down my cheeks as the frenzied digging ensued.

The next two hours were a blur. All I know is at the end of it, I was staring at a roughly rectangular hole, six feet deep by six feet tall and three feet wide. Guiltily I looked at the pile of earth and wondered aloud what I should do with the leftover soil. I almost laughed when I recalled the soil bags stitched into prisoners' trousers in The Great Escape.

I pulled the limp and lifeless body up onto my back and carried it outside. I uttered a guilty farewell as I unceremoniously dumped her into the hole and begain to fill in the soil, ironically using the very instrument of her demise to do so. The shovel would have to be disposed of.

Finished, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and walked back into the house. I washed my hands furiously to rid myself of incriminating dirt, before picking up the telephone and dialling the number of my best friend's phone.

"Clive..." I sobbed as he picked it up

"There's been a terrible accident. I need you here quickly. Something awful has happened" I gulped, in between sobs.

Twenty minutes later I heard the sound of his car outside. I opened the door and ushered him into the house.

"What's going on?" he enquired, clearly deeply concerned for my wellbeing.

"It's ex-Mrs PJM. We had a fight. I was holding a shovel..." I was fighting for breath.

"Where is she?" He asked.

"Out here..." I led him outside into the garden.

"What have you done?" he asked in an accusing voice.

"You've left her arse sticking up out of the ground!" he exclaimed.

He was indeed right.

"Well, I needed somewhere to park my bike".
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 29 Feb 2008, 11:51, 6 replies)

That is...
..until she decomposes and turns to soup. Then its gonna make a terrible mess of your tyre's.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Fri 29 Feb 2008, 11:57, closed)

pfft!
Nice twist! *clicky*
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 29 Feb 2008, 11:59, closed)

*cough*
© Billy Connolly 1975
(oneloafleft, Fri 29 Feb 2008, 12:08, closed)

What?
He married my ex-wife too?
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 29 Feb 2008, 12:16, closed)

*cough cough
Thought it was Chick Murray circa 1970?
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 29 Feb 2008, 14:53, closed)

By the sounds of things
you were right to do away with her!
(Bazongaloid, Fri 29 Feb 2008, 15:51, closed)