I smelled gas.

However, I remained still. I governed my breathes while exploring my predicament. I saw, felt, and heard nothing. However, my ears rang like I'd just left a concert.

Thankfully, the thunderous roar had stopped. But the echo of the silence was too loud to think that I was dead. Entombed, yes. Expired, not yet. Living was on the clock and I was in dire need of a Lady Luck spanking. Having regained my wits, I quickly shifted into survivalist mode.

Which way was up, was I hurt, and how deep down was I?

No excessive cranial pressure. Good. Except for my cheeks, there were no cold, warm, or wet spots, so I assumed that I wasn’t exposed or bleeding out, and that my winter clothes were still intact. However, my buried-alive depth was undetermined.

Fortunately, there was no pain. Nothing was unnaturally twisted, bent, or broken. I just couldn’t move. I felt like a swaddled baby. But, I was running on beer, fury, and adrenaline. If I was injured, would I even know?

I had to keep warm. Like peeing in a wet suit, I considered a little fart. It would briefly warm me but I feared the worst. My stomach was knotted. Most likely due to the recent gut punch and ensuing duress. What if I shit myself and they found me alive, or worse? I decided to wait.

When I wiggled my left hand, I realized my finger tips were against my groin. I must admit, the thought crossed my mind. It would take some serious effort and concentration. One for the road, perhaps? My thoughts immediately went to Barry’s wife, the source of my fury. I also considered Rhonda, the source of my guilt. However, oxygen was precious. Even if I could, I’d probably die from autoerotic asphyxiation. I should be so lucky.

I then chuckled, thinking about a coroner-in-training trying to explain the autopsy findings.

“He died by asphyxiation. However… “

“However?”

“He presents as having ejaculated.”

“That sometimes happens.”

“And defecated.”

“That happens too. It’s not uncommon for the body to release its contents postmortem.”

“Understood. But both bodily functions functioned perimortem. He somehow jerked off and shit himself before he died. How the hell do I document that?”

I weakly chuckled. That wasn't good. The little oxygen there was, was mixing with exhaled carbon dioxide, compromising my demonstrative sense of humour. Every breath I took was one breath closer to death.

Wait. Was that both, The Police and Pink Floyd? Well done, son.

These slopes are unstable. Do not ride tonight. I had the training. I had the experience. And I knew better than to sleep with my friend’s wife.

Our affair lasted three years, most of which was before my wife’s death. No future plans, just consensual shagging. We both had shitty marriages. It was perfect. Then, at the cabin filled with friends, she ended us. Wanted to save her stupid marriage. It got heated. I started my sled to mask our argument. She threatened to tell Barry the truth about my wife, and that we were never consensual. She’d claim she feared for her life.

The fog of fury struck me again. When she turned her back, I blipped the throttle and struck her hard, snapping her body backwards at the hip, before I ran her over. The track then spat her broken body back several feet, and I was gone. Most likely, so was she.

Now, buried without snowmobile gear, a beacon, and at night, I knew I was screwed. I decided to say goodbye via confession.

Rhonda. It was me. The hallway was packed. Like a line of leaf cutter ants, we nerds and nobodies passed through the jungle of high, cool kids. No one, and I mean NO ONE fit their jeans like you. You made my wet dreams come true.

Hall and Oates? Nice.

Your back was to me. So was that magnificent ass. I had books in one hand, my other down at my side. As we streamed by, I ran the back of my hand along the contours of your magnificent, denim-clad ass. It was better than imagined. Smooth. Firm. Absolutely glorious. The only response was, "Hey!", your shriek of violation.

I wanted to apologize. Still do. But I was a confused and horny teenager, surviving an abusive mother, and murderous dream. By the way, I still dream about your magnificent ass.

I was fading. I sensed the end.

Guilty.

I wanted a solo ride. Deliver mother’s ashes, then aimlessly ride. It would've been a cleansing of sorts. Like bathing in smoldering sage. It was about closure, not forgiveness.

But, my dearest, you demanded to come. So, we rode to the hole, tossed mother in, and then you kept riding. You abandoned me! No real reason given other than you tasted home. You triggered me, darling. Just like mother had, but now, just enough. Rage festered for decades. You became its recipient. Besides, people die in their sleep all the time.

They knew, I knew, of your compromised respiratory condition. For you to fall asleep face down in your pillows was a fear. For me, it was a solution. Sure, I was a suspect. The closest ones always are. But still waters run deep and no one was willing to dive to those depths. Case closed.

Hypothermia had not yet set. Nor did I suffocate. My unconsciousness, however, robbed me of elation. I didn't feel the stab of avalanche probes, nor did I see the light.

From her battered body, they tracked me to the trailing edge of the avalanche. My sled's lights and the avalanche-triggering turbo screech helped too.

It was gas that I'd smelled. Had it not been for the tail of my snowmobile sticking up like a tombstone, I'd never have comfortably fallen asleep, albeit handcuffed, to the vision of Dr. Rhonda's magnificent ass exiting my hospital room.

Help me, Rhonda.

Help me get me out of my mind.