Buried

Buried
A short story by Damon Fillman

My head jolted upward, colliding with what felt like a scrap of wood. I screeched loudly, exercising my right to know of my location, followed by a crippling cough that overwhelmed my lungs. My eyes, ready to bring calm to my nervousness, couldn't assist because my eyelids were covered in what mom used to call "eye boogers." The rest of my body couldn't shiver in fright, let alone move; frozen like beef on a hook.
"Hello!" I screamed. Hollow. "Is anyone there?"
I started regaining access to the rest of my body. A sudden chill swept my nerves and the hair on my arms stood up like soldiers ready for battle. My left eye abruptly opened and a batch of tears dripped toward my ear.
I remembered being fond of lazy afternoons where I could rest comfortably in the isolation of my bed and enjoy a rejuvenating cup of orange juice in the kitchen; rejoicing over the option of lifting myself out of bed and living my life. Choice was a luxury reserved for those above ground.
"Help--" I screamed while banging the ceiling of the coffin like it was a conga drum. "What is this--can anybody hear me?"
A match, I thought. I had a match. Swoosh.
Deep grooves on the roof of the coffin revealed a previous tenant, or perhaps my forgettable exploits to escape. The last remnants of oxygen kept me alive long enough to envision my slow but inevitable death.
Would I scream long and loud enough to convince groundskeepers to throw more dirt over the grave, or would the shrill frighten them back to their shelters--leaving me to rot? Without the ability to sit upright, would I suffocate on my own vomit? Or would I starve to death and renew my appreciation for those who suffered during the Holocaust?

....find out what happens and read the full story plus others on my blog

http://damonfillman.com