Mud

          There is mud under my nails. So much that I can’t pick it out. The hardened mud forms a brittle layer on my skin and clothes, making a crunching sound as I walk, leaving a small trail of specks in my wake. He isn’t much better off than I am. I don’t have to look at him to know. What a picture we must make, two teenagers covered in mud and dirt coming out of a shadowy forest in the early hours of the morning. I laugh just thinking of it.

          If he had thought things through instead of acting on impulse, this never would have happened. I’m sure of it. But no, he had to do it, the idiot that he is. Can’t hold his own, if you ask me. We’ll never be able to keep this a secret, not in a million years. I still can’t believe I let him rope me into it. They’ll eventually find out and when they do I’ll say he forced me, said he would do unspeakable things to me if I did not cooperate, turn on the crocodile tears. They love that kind of drama. I’m not selfish; I just want to look after number one. Survival of the fittest, and all that jazz.

          It’s his fault, after all. I just helped to hide the body.