A death sentence is supposed to mean you die. So when I woke up after my execution, I was right fuckin’ confused. The gut-kick from the asshole in the radiation suit didn’t help.
Shoveling. Apparently a death sentence doesn’t mean they kill you; it means you shovel radioactive shit until you can’t. I’d swear I was on fuckin’ Mars if I didn’t see the moon each night.
No one says much. Most of the fuckers here are so messed up all they do is drool. Nothin’ to do but dig. Scrapin’ the top, almost like clearing the land ‘cept there ain’t shit on it anyways.
I asked the guards what this fucking place is, but they don’t say shit. Can’t even see their faces behind those black masks. After we dig enough, they take some reading. If they like it, we move onto the next patch of dirt. If they don’t, we keep digging there.
Getting’ blisters all over, killer headaches. Only took a few weeks. Guess I’ll die after all. Maybe I’ll take one of those mute fucking guards with me. Killed before, they sent me here. What’ll they do to me now?
Better do it soon, coughin’ blood.
Ha! Got the fucker. Never even saw it coming. They caught me ‘course, strapped me down like when they killed me the first time. They even talked.
“We’re sending you ahead to see if our remedial work is taking hold.” The IVs stuck in my arm were familiar, but the metal collar they clamped on me was not.
A death sentence is supposed to mean you die. I wasn’t confused when I woke up this time. No boot in the gut which was nice. Not much air, either. Keep at it boys, you gotta lot of fuckin’ work to do.
See this week’s writing challenge.