It was somewhere in the middle of the night. Out of my right eye, if I squinted, I could see, barely. My head ached and my left eye had swollen to a point where vision was impossible. I tried to raise my arms to protect myself, but I was so weak from digging I couldn't. He hit me three more times in the head, twice over my left ear and once directly over my forehead. I did, but no more than five seconds after I handed him the shovel, he raised it and swung it into my face. “Give me the shovel,” he said desperately, his breathing as heavy as my own. Had he said it took me four hours or thirty minutes, I would have believed him either way. I can't remember how long it took because I was so petrified with fear that I lost all track of time. Too narrow for a coffin, but just right for a body. He had me stop digging at what seemed like three feet deep and two feet across. So I wouldn't scream, he put duct tape over my mouth, not that I would have been able to utter even a peep, my throat was so dry. I wasn't sure if he was going to bury me alive or kill me first, but I knew that one way or another the grave I was digging was my own. The First 100 Days: A White House Journalįor all her support, love and encouragement over the years. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.Īll rights reserved. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to and purchase your own copy. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

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Colder Than Death by D.B. Gilles