Jesus told me to stop.
Anywhere, I begged him. Anywhere to hold my sins.
This is it.
I looked around the area. Remote enough. The utility pole, a makeshift cross of wires and wood, consecrated the ground.
There's no better place.
I nodded and opened my backpack to find the retractable spade. The bottom of the pack kept my oblivion, my ignorance of women. Some mistakes were better known only to God. Her mother's pleas echoed somewhere in my brain.
In time, as the moon hung low through the clouds, the hole of my faith was dug.
Better the sins of the father be paid through his spirit than that of the child.
Jesus rambled in riddles, but it didn't matter. She would be safe in His arms and I was willing to pay with my soul, rather than my future in this life.
She cooed softly as I piled on the dirt.
[When Flood is not writing, she's thinking about writing. Or writing about writing on FlashFlood.]