Mine

When Hui smiles, her mouth is a rusty-toothed snare, nothing like the soft lips when you first met at the Qianmen market. She is barely recognizable. Her skin is oily; she snores loudly, like rocks tumbling in a dryer.
“Jia, it’s time,” she says, motioning you ahead. It’s time, you think, as if you have a fucking choice.
The entrance to the mine is unassuming. You could easily walk past it without regard for the powers it confers. There's a moldering rim of wooden stakes and warped fencing. The sign is barely visible: Northern Shaanxi Mine, No. 6. The pore slowly widens and constricts as you approach it, pulsating in the earth.
It is said to be impossible to enter this pit on your own volition. It’s easy to imagine the steps — there’s a hole, and you should be able to simply step into it if you choose. But it’s like trying to hold your breath under water; you would need immense self-discipline to drown yourself.
This is your sole worth to Hui, day after day: to push her off the ledge.
The rim is bubbling with sticky tar. You inch closer. Moonlight distorts against the walls like fire by a muddy puddle. The smell is a garbage disposal caked with fungus. You wish you could go back to rinsing rice in a metal bowl, watching the cloudy water clear. How did this golden pheasant, barely five feet with cinnamon skin draping off her clavicles like a gown, become this monster? You even served her, no charge, your father’s niúròu miàn. You even made love.
Your nostrils flare and your fist lands squarely against her ribs. She’s down, that bitch. Wheezing. Sputtering blood. You hit her until there’s nothing left but nausea. She’s pinned under your legs, scoffing at you like an incensed spouse.
You drag her into the wobbly basket that dangles above the pit’s mouth, stepping delicately to avoid getting stuck in its discharge. All you can do is look at one another with a listless gaze. That’s when you grab a jagged rock and knock her out, your face flushed and eyes wet. Then all that’s left is to crank the turn wheel until she has vanished into the darkness and to wait for her to resurface. There is time to run, but you never do.

***

Jonathan H. Smith (he/him) is an author and physician, residing with his family in Chicago, IL. His writing is forthcoming in Nightmare.

Twitter: @JHSmithMD.