“Get out of the car, Bridget.”

When she didn’t move, he pounded a fist on the roof and pulled open the door. She stumbled to where he pointed with the shovel and stopped short before the pit. The trees behind him obstructed the view from the road. If you could still call it a road out here.

He asked for her jewellery first. She handed it over, thinking surely he would let her go. Then he made her take her shoes off. The ground in the pit was damp beneath her feet.

When Bridget broke his heart, he vowed he’d get revenge. He wouldn’t stop until the pain stopped. He clenched her bracelet so hard, it poked dimples in his hands.

She spun around in the dirt. “Please! You’re making a mistake.”

When it was over, he tucked the gun in his pocket and patted the mound. He ambled to the hood of the car and lit a cigarette. He was no fool. He knew Bridget was gone. But it still hurt. Maybe it would hurt for the rest of his life.

He contemplated the dead woman in the grave, thumbing the inscription on her bracelet: “Joanna”.

This story came to me in a creepy dream. I wanted to try telling it as briefly as possible. It explores the human tendency to project our obsessions onto others.