Frosted grass and dirt slipped from the clutch of his gnarled hands.
He tightened his fists, bunched his sinews, and lunged upward. The clods fell away. His lungs spasmed and expanded with cold air as he blinked at the bright stars. Ah, the nights, the wealth, women, and wine.
… the knife in his back and the b—ch who put him in that grave.
His heart seemed to beat. He yanked his legs free of the frozen mud, tested his strength to stand, and shambled from the cemetery.
“Nora, darling,” he croaked in the dark. “I’m coming for you!”
Friday Fictioneers: 100-word stories
photo prompt: Liz Young