Writing Prompt: Buried Alive


I screamed until I was hoarse. My fingernails were torn and bloody from where I had tried to scratch the top of the coffin to pieces.  At this point I was trying to calm myself down.  I no longer could hear hammering, or dirt pounding the coffin. That meant either I was too buried to hear anything else, or they had quit.

Slow your breather. Slow. Slow.  I tried meditating.  The faster I breathed, and the more panicked I was, the more air I used.  How many hours could you last in a coffin? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.  Did I want to know how many hours I had till Death came for me?

I tried to take my mind off the darkness. I closed my eyes. Pointless, but it made me feel better.  Why was I here? Who would bury me alive? What had I done? I wish I knew. At least if I knew why I was dying, that would be better. Maybe it was some crazy experiment, and I would be brought back up before the point of no return.  Could that be it?

I didn’t know.

How much time had passed? Not much. What was left?

My cat. Who would take care of my cat? How sad was it that that was what I worried about? I really had been a shut in. So who the hell could I have pissed off enough to be buried alive?


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