Travis O'Milton [D7] [CB] ~FIN~

"We'll have yer son's grave ready within the week ma'am, Travis over here is a machine."

Sometimes this golden cross around my neck feels heavier than the shovel sewn to the palm of my hands. I huff, pull, breathe, wheeze as steel sinks into the grown and dirt flies above my head. Labor incarnate; my muscles strain, streak and tear but I've been numb to fire in my bones and steel whittling away at my sinews for years. It's a gift my grandma said, it's what makes me good at my job; that's how I get food on the table.

Boss says I'm more than a worker, I'm his machine. Genetics combined with years of being a lumberjack before this has made my muscles grow, made me stocky and too damn strong. My hands are granite - sturdy and callous. I stand at 6'2, boss calls me his personal machine but he doesn't see the rust between the gears; hidden behind dark hair and a full beard. Smoke in my lungs and ash clouding my shoulders, all in the name of granting calm to a heavy heart.

Grandma says I look just like my dad, before the peacekeepers blew a hole through his hollow chest a couple of months ago. He put food on my table and a moral compass in my hand so I turned a shoulder to the axe and took solace with the shovel. I dug his grave and I ain't stopped since. Ripred bless his soul, Ripred bless all their souls.

"How big do y'need Travis to make the grave?"

The woman stifles a sob. "Nothing too wide or grand, he was only two years old after all."

This golden cross around my neck doesn't get any lighter when the shovels hits the ground for the one thousandth time.