Tramp
He pushed through the shallow grave and hauled himself out. Extremely exhausted, he caught his breath in the chilly October air as he sat on a large mound of fresh dirt. A warm trickle ran down his right temple. He wiped it with a hand and examined it by the brisk moonlight above. Just as he suspected–blood. He realized now just how much trouble it was just to get above ground alive, nonetheless in one piece. For a moment he’d completely forgotten why he was even here at all–only a moment–just long enough to realize he wasn’t going to bleed to death. And then the real dread of being alive was suddenly brought horrifyingly back by his wedding ring glistening up at him on the same hand. He sneered at it for a moment then cocked his head back at the moon.
“Damn, you tramp!” he yelled.