"Th-that man-" I could hear her teeth chatter with every breath. When she sobbed, it was like pebbles grinding against each other in a rock tumbler. Normally, I would have whipped around to see if this girl was any danger to me. If she had others, I would have been in trouble; but she didn't. I couldn't see her, but the tone of her voice, pitiful but strong, it rung in my ears like a familiar bell. A bell that rang with every breath I took.
"That man what." I said. "What did he do to do deserve-" I choked back a sob before getting up on shaking legs. "-this?" I turned my head in the voice's direction and pointed at the pool of blood he lay in. More sobs emitted from the wood, faster this time.
"Come on out." I said, sheathing my knife in the holder I'd fashioned out of a torn leather jacket. I had learned about the strategy of tying it onto my shoulder from a book I remember reading, called Bloody Jack I believe. "Trust me, I'm no more dangerous than the man this corpse was before he was murdered."
"How should I know you ain't with that po-po from Hell?" I would have smiled if this were any other situation. I swear, I would have. Why? Because, it was the first time in what seemed like decades I had heard that oh-so-familiar Southern accent. The way she said ain't made my mouth water at the thought of corn bread and macaroni n' cheese, the way my aunt made it; not the boxed kind.
"Swear on my Confederate heritage I ain't." I said. "And besides, why the Hell would I be crying over this man's body if I was?" I swore I heard a constrained giggle come out from the undergrowth.
"You sure?"
"Am I breathing?" I asked, avoiding the first reply that popped into my head, afraid it'd hurt her more.
"That man what." I said. "What did he do to do deserve-" I choked back a sob before getting up on shaking legs. "-this?" I turned my head in the voice's direction and pointed at the pool of blood he lay in. More sobs emitted from the wood, faster this time.
"Come on out." I said, sheathing my knife in the holder I'd fashioned out of a torn leather jacket. I had learned about the strategy of tying it onto my shoulder from a book I remember reading, called Bloody Jack I believe. "Trust me, I'm no more dangerous than the man this corpse was before he was murdered."
"How should I know you ain't with that po-po from Hell?" I would have smiled if this were any other situation. I swear, I would have. Why? Because, it was the first time in what seemed like decades I had heard that oh-so-familiar Southern accent. The way she said ain't made my mouth water at the thought of corn bread and macaroni n' cheese, the way my aunt made it; not the boxed kind.
"Swear on my Confederate heritage I ain't." I said. "And besides, why the Hell would I be crying over this man's body if I was?" I swore I heard a constrained giggle come out from the undergrowth.
"You sure?"
"Am I breathing?" I asked, avoiding the first reply that popped into my head, afraid it'd hurt her more.
