You Start Out Wanting Everything


The black bag over his head was bad enough, his breath moist and uncomfortably hot. Funny how he’d never noticed before just how hot the air in your lungs really was. You saw it on a winter morning, of course, the jets of steam coming from the children as they waited for the school bus. But you needed a bag over your head to really know.

Oh God. I will never see them again. I’ve been so fucking stupid.

His hands were the worst, bent beneath his weight, the links of chain cutting into his wrists as the SUV bucked and jerked over the rough road. Nobody had said a word since they had grabbed him in the parking lot, hooded him and cuffed him and shoved him into the back. He didn’t ask what it was about. He knew. He fucking knew.

Somebody in the front seat is smoking. God, I hate that. 

Anger flooded him, anger at them, at the situation, at this stupid addiction. How could he possibly think this would turn out differently?

Stupid stupid stupid.

The SUV gave an especially huge lurch and for a brief second he was airborne, slamming his wrists as he came back down. He heard the rattle and bang of tools back behind the seat. Shovels.

You start out wanting so much. You start out wanting everything. Now I only want one thing.

The SUV stopped. He smelled dust, felt the heat of open sunshine on the black fabric covering his face.

I want them to leave the hood on.


Sunday Photo Fiction