“What will you be giving?”
Fuck. You were hoping “building the website” would be your donation.
“Maybe fifty…” Lindsi glares. “Or, you know, a hundred and fifty dollars?”
She snorts and walks out of the room.
“You coming?” Lars claps a hand on your shoulder.
“For what?”
“We’re gonna need all of us to dig the real grave, what with the ground being frozen. Lindsi said you wouldn’t want to help—actually, she used a few choice words,” Lars blushes slightly. “And called Steve, her high school boyfriend, to help. But I thought you should be included.”
“Thanks, Lars.” You force another smile. Gee, fantastic. You get to dig frozen ground in order to not look like a pussy next to Lindsi’s ex. “Won’t Steve have trouble, though?”
“Why?”
“The prosthetic hand?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
You frown, and follow Lars outside.
As Lindsi and her sister Luanne look on, crying silently (and Mom barely represses her glee), you help the men dig the hole. It takes you about ten minutes to fully wedge the shovel into the ground. You chip out a cubic inch of icy soil.
Awesome.
Every time you look at Lindsi, her face contorts in disgust.
Even better.
And every time she looks at Steve—who’s really making some progress, whatever his hand’s made of—she makes bedroom eyes.
Dammit, this is easily the fourth-worst Christmas you’ve ever had.
The End.
“Okay, and then put the seizure GIF here.” Lindsi points to the laptop screen. You’ve been helping her set up a memorial fund for epileptic retrievers all morning. Hopefully a few people donate anonymously. Otherwise you’re going to have to pay into this thing with more than just wasted hours of your life.
Oh, well. It’s not exactly a typical Christmas, but it does seem like everyone’s accepted your I-was-sleeping lie. Better than nothing.
After breakfast, Lars comes up and hangs a massive arm around your shoulder.
“We wanted to include you,” he says, nodding toward the back yard. Through the door, you see Dad and Michael shoveling a small square.
“Include me?”
“We usually dig graves as a family.”
“Oh, but…”
“He’s right, you’re family now.” Mom smiles at you from the doorway. “Hopefully you’ll get down to making it official sooner rather than later.”
Jesus, yesterday you were the plague of the VanWhittingtons; today they’re trying to turn you into a son-in-law. All because you murdered a dog. You’re not sure if you’re more relieved or horrified—both emotions are pretty strong.
You head out with Lars and begin digging the hole, each of you taking a turn with the shovel. No one even mentions the fact that your scoops of frozen earth are barely making a dent. They all seem to accept you—and your weak, human-sized arms—for what you are.
It would be reassuring if Mom weren’t smiling at you over everyone’s shoulders, pointing at the diamond ring on her finger, mouthing, You can give it to Lindsi.
On the one hand, it’s nice to be included.
On the other hand, you’re terrified to think what Mom will do to you if you tell her you saw this relationship as more of a casual thing…
The End.
Well, you’ve managed to make a complete hash of your fictional life. Are you proud of yourself?
But for all the endings in this book, this isn’t the end for Choose Your Own Misery. Save up your booze money and keep your eyes peeled for the next installment in the Choose Your Own Misery series, coming soon to wherever books (and maybe booze) are sold.
In the meantime, keep mainlining misery straight into your eyeballs by following the authors online:
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Hope to do this all again real soon…
Choose Your Own Misery Page 27