https://www.flickr.com/photos/sidibousaid/6172764252/in/photolist-apt2KS-8nEJrR-qnWsPT-2KQiEF-boeQUf-seWof5-8zxNAi-6YWAdn-srGNgK-bsKRgZ-pUw4LU-pC3Ebf-pUw3JJ-pShjA7-pC3FZA-fn5qwN-6exuX9-pUnN9a-6SQ777-oXAsYj-ekDBWD-CH8wZ-CH8zb-ekDB4F-87g7a-hxpU9-hxXao-51NgH-agfjEU-jCxxN-t9WYMN-fAF5aW-CH8ie-fFHkQD-euBerM-72DukD-72HiDj-4S69k8-iPFqHV-4Q9xH1-gr9by4-gNXvsN-7PYNQB-hqPyr-6f17Vg-8kMQYD-6TBDh2-4PhT8S-4PdB82-4PdANi

Till Death Do Us Part by Elizabeth Dobbin

Till Death Do Us Part The lake stretched out before him, beckoning him to its frigid depths. A dull weight hung
on him, pressing down on his shoulders, on his heart, on his lungs. Spines of cattails grew from the banks of the lake, mixed with waist high thistles and crab grass. He remembered the way the moon shined on the lake, like the facets of a diamond, but not tonight. Tonight, the moon hid its face from him. Even the geese swimming in the black water paddled away from him, and the dragonflies hummed toward the distant banks.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/sidibousaid/6172764252/in/photolist-apt2KS-8nEJrR-qnWsPT-2KQiEF-boeQUf-seWof5-8zxNAi-6YWAdn-srGNgK-bsKRgZ-pUw4LU-pC3Ebf-pUw3JJ-pShjA7-pC3FZA-fn5qwN-6exuX9-pUnN9a-6SQ777-oXAsYj-ekDBWD-CH8wZ-CH8zb-ekDB4F-87g7a-hxpU9-hxXao-51NgH-agfjEU-jCxxN-t9WYMN-fAF5aW-CH8ie-fFHkQD-euBerM-72DukD-72HiDj-4S69k8-iPFqHV-4Q9xH1-gr9by4-gNXvsN-7PYNQB-hqPyr-6f17Vg-8kMQYD-6TBDh2-4PhT8S-4PdB82-4PdANi

Moon River image courtesy of Flickr user Simon Harrod

A mosquito suckled at his cheek, and he let it feed. Eventually it buzzed away, drunkenly, on a winding path to its next victim. Reaching into the tool box in the back of his truck, he pulled out a bottle of beer, slamming the lip of the bottle against his truck so that the top flew off into a patch of crab grass nearby. Shifting his feet, he watched his breath condense into the cold air, the only trace of his presence there evaporating almost instantly.

He glanced down at the map in his pocket, his path drawn out in red marker across the folds. Too easy, he thought, throwing back his chin to taunt the sky. Two days and I’ll be in Canada. Let’s see them find me then. The thought caused a smirk to tug at his lips, twisting his visage. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, tossing the last empty bottle back into his toolbox. The jewelry box was nestled between his hammer and measuring tape, and he flipped it open, gazing at the emerald necklace inside. The ring was there too, set with two emeralds and a diamond. The smile never left his face.

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Elizabeth Dobbin holds a B.A. in Music and a minor in Creative Writing from Concordia University where she worked as a writing consultant at the Concordia University Writing Center. Her work has been published in The Writing Disorder and Halcyon Magazine.