The coldness of the steel toe boot in her stomach made the pain from the cross shaped burn mark on the left shoulder a mere redundancy. She coughed as the sole pressed once more against the soft soil. The attacker’s visage was concealed below the soaked balaclava. A wrinkled patch of face, red because of anger or hypertension was the only visible part of his humanity. The eyes didn’t show any. She could swear he closed them before the kick, but surely the adrenaline took care of any hesitation as it traversed through the arterial pathways decorated with the trophies of decades of pork chops and beef jerky.
The heavy drops played monotonous percussions against the brand new shovel’s blade lifted over his head. Down in the mud, her true struggle was to make the mangled stomach, the concussions, the burnt skin pale in comparison to the vividness of her fondest memories. Nothing like that first kiss in the showers after the football championship. She looked so different then, nobody, except her beloved would recognize her now. Those were the best years in her life, until his family ruined it all because of who she was.
Attacker and victim held their breaths while the agricultural instrument made its milliseconds-long journey down to earth. It landed with a huge splash.
Her nostrils were covered in dirt, but the marvelous part was they were still in place. As the blindness caused by the SUV’s headlights receded a collage of emotions and memories surfaced at the sight of the unmasked face. Even if no tears could have been distinguished under such a deluge, the eyes told everything as the words came out of the trembling lips: “You really love my son, faggot, don’t you?”