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?