The mangled and bloody remains of what I think is a dog lie in a mound of freshly turned earth. I think the thing is dead but suddenly it starts twitching and writhing. I can’t bear the thought of the pain the creature must be going through but I don’t know what to do. I want to pile earth on to it so that I don’t have to look at it any more but I have a feeling that might be cowardly. I have to kill it outright, but I can’t. I don't want to and I don't know how to do it.
I wake, and realise that the creature is my past – the things in my past that still give me pain but which I can’t give up.
(And thanks to Trish Currie's brilliant blog which gave me the idea for this post.)
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