Where am I? It's so impossibly black. The last thing I remember was the hospital and then... oh, God!
I'm trying so hard not to panic, but I have a lifetime, reduced to a cheap, plywood box, with nothing else left to do now. Every breath is hot, stale, recycled. I'm gasping for what little air I can draw in. The tears have dried from my eyes, now, as despair grips my chest tightly, slowing my heaving lungs. I focus on breathing.
I finally collect myself long enough to decide; I will not die here! I feel around and my fingers brush against the rough wood of my coffin. I run my palms across the coarse surface. I smash the wood with short bursts as hard as I can muster. Somehow, with fingernails that must be bleeding as they burn, oozing a thick liquid, I pry small pieces of wood free. The dirt hits my face and I work it slowly down to my feet. I claw at the dirt, slowly shifting my weight up, continually pushing dirt down to my feet. Twisting, scraping, digging up, to freedom, to life.
The dirt collapses, immobilizing me.
Hope, siren of the damned.
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