Chapter Nine

DANIIL

The muscles in my arms, shoulders, and back are tight and begin to ache. It takes me twenty minutes to make it to the edge of our property near the Roaring Fork River.

There’s a little green shack that stands on the edge, and it hasn’t been used in some time. Dropping his body, I lean forward, resting my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

I finger the padlock on the door and begin to enter the combination. I can hear the click, but it doesn’t open easily because it’s been rusted from years of non-use.

After several attempts, the lock finally opens, and I drop it on the ground before I open the door. Stepping inside I frown at the musty odor oppressing the fresh air from outside.

The scampering of tiny feet causes me to jerk my attention quickly to the right, and I see that I’ve got company. Rodents don’t bother me. They’re a necessary evil in this world, just like I am.

Walking to the rear wall, I finger the lock on the cabinet doors. It’s surprisingly still in good shape and opens easily when I enter the combination.

A variety of tools hang on hooks at my disposal but it’s the machete that I choose. Returning to the other side of the shack, I take the machete and begin to sharpen it against the sharpening block.

I remove my phone from my pocket and pull up my Spotify playlist. Setting it to the song that I want to listen to, I begin to take solace in the work of my hands as I hum the tune of Beethoven’s Für Elise.

Satisfied with the sharpness and gleam of the knife’s blade, I set it down on the large wooden counter attached to the North wall. Grabbing a roll of plastic and a large drop cloth from a corner, I return to the counter.

I slowly and methodically pull a long sheet of plastic from the roll and wrap the counter twice before laying the large drop cloth on top of it.

The classical piece continues to play as I head back out of the shack and into the snow. Shaking my head at the slovenly man, I kneel once more and heft his bulk up into my arms.

Although it’s straining my muscles, it’s also increasing my muscle tone and my determination and keeping me from dragging his body in the snow. I don’t want any prints or blood trail left behind, so I’ll do what I must to eliminate the possibility of either of those occurrences.

When I enter the shack again, Mozart’s Symphony 40 in G minor, K. 550, is playing. I lay the man on the table, pat his pale cheeks, and straighten his clothes. Satisfied that everything is as it should be, I smile at him and wish him a Merry Christmas.

“S Rozhdestvom.”

I slowly and methodically begin to sever his hands away from his body. After all, these hands were the source of his evil. So much hurt and pain were doled out because of these hands. Blood was shed because of the evil these hands generated.

One by one, I sever the limbs from his body before finally moving to his head and severing it from his torso. I return to the cabinet and grab another knife to slice clean pieces of plastic from the roll. Each of which I use to wrap up a body part.

When it’s complete, I head back outside, carrying his head, feet, and hands to an old wheelbarrow that I saw. It’s packed with snow but it takes only minutes for me to empty the snow from the wheelbarrow, replacing it with the body parts. I continue to do this until all the body parts are packed down neatly.

I return to the shack to clean my mess, thankful that the old sink beside the rusty door still works. It takes a couple of minutes before the water pours from the spigot, but when it does, it comes out in full force.

After I’ve cleaned every surface, I grab a shovel from a corner, the drop cloth, lighter fluid, and the soiled plastic, and cram them into the wheelbarrow with the body. I place the shovel on top of everything to weigh it down.

Pushing the wheelbarrow down closer to the water is rigorous but not as difficult as it was carrying his body down here.

I grab the shovel, walk twenty paces from the wheelbarrow, and take a right. I mark off another ten paces and begin to dig. After I have created a sizeable hole, I walk another fifty paces and do the same thing until I have a total of twelve holes.

One by one, I bury the body parts in a hole, and one by one, I recover them with snow, packing it tightly before packing some loose snow over them.

I pour lighter fluid into the wheelbarrow dousing the cloth and plastic in it before I set it on fire.

Tired, I sit on the ground for a couple of minutes close to the fire and I close my eyes and meditate. The only thing that I hear is the trickling of the river nearby, the roaring of the fire, and Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker, Op. 71: The Miniature Overture is playing from my phone.

I remain in this catatonic state, allowing my surroundings and the music to cleanse my soul. By the time Act One, Scene One of the Christmas Tree ends, I am calm. I stand, brush the snow off my damp trousers, empty the ashes in the wheelbarrow into the river, and begin to push it back up the hill.

I will return to this spot tomorrow with my brothers to plant twelve evergreen trees, as is our Christmas tradition.