Tomb

Tomb

Pushed by the lack of air, I suddenly open my eyes. I'm surrounded by darkness. I can't tell where I am, but I'm breathing heavily, gasping for air, and it seems as if, at any moment, my oxygen will run out. I feel like I'm underwater, sinking deeper and deeper into the blackness of the ocean. All I can see is the light above, which gets smaller and smaller until my lungs fill with water, my eyes become heavy, and I die. I smell putrid, rotten and cold.
I try to bend my knees but immediately bump into something above me. I raise my hands, but I get the same result. I twist my head left and right, groping around, inhaling the stirring dust that envelops me like a protective cloak. 
I'm locked in a small space where noises have died, where birds don't sing, where oxygen doesn't reach. I check my clothes and manage to find a box of matches in my right pocket. With difficulty, I lift my head a little off the ground, then with my right hand, I hold the stick, and with my left, I wipe it on the strike strip. Then I let my head fall back to its original position, drained of strength. I shine the light around me. The flame doesn't struggle when it's away from me, but when it gets close, it wants to run, to get out of this nightmarish landscape. All around me are horizontally laid wood and wisps of earth. Nothing else. 'I am dressed in a long white dress with braces and white shoes, which are foreign to me.I don't recognise them. They don't belong to me. The match is half-struck; soon, it will leave me, and I will be in the dark again. 
I watch it go out before my eyes - say nothing, barely breathe - but my cheeks get damp. I cry. I sigh. I'm trapped in a cave with no way out. 
The flame burns my fingertips, but I don't kill it; I want to feel pain, I want to make sure I'm still alive. I have to be sure of that. 
I wipe the bridge of my palm over my face, and the earth gets in my eyes. 
Again, I cry from fear, from the inability to do anything, from the fear of the end, from the fear that I will have to stay in this dead position and wait to fall asleep forever. 
The fog.
I push the matchbox slightly beneath me, for fear of losing it, draw air into my lungs and use all my strength to push the plate above me. But she doesn't move, she doesn't flinch, she wants me to die, she wants me to meet my end with her, both of us to rot at our own pace. I even lift my knees and try once, but then the sand seeps in and gets in my mouth, nose and eyes, punishing me for my recklessness. I spit. I don't know where, and I repeat the motion once, twice, and three times. 
I can't breathe. My lungs are gagging, and my mouth is filled with wet, rancid, salty dirt. Tiny pebbles slip through my teeth. I'd like to light another matchstick, but fatigue has eaten up enough oxygen. I must stay conscious; I must escape. I try to regulate my breathing, close my eyes, and imagine I'm outside, on a deserted beach surrounded by waves and seagulls. 
But I immediately open my eyes because I can fall asleep without permission, and if that happens, my end is guaranteed. 
I place my palms on the wood in front of me. I prop my knees, then push like a pregnant woman. I grit my teeth and howl in pain with my mouth open, on which the sickening earth settles. 
I can't. I can't. I will die. I'll die of asphyxiation. Lord, please help me, I call on you, my last chance, if you can hear me from this shithole. I've been buried alive, Lord, please reach out your hand and help me out, let me live the life you gave me as a gift. With trembling fingers and wounded jaws, I reach for the box and light another stick. I have only two left, and then the darkness will be a part of me. I glow to my right, then to my left and finally above my eyes. I see a small hole, stick my finger in and poke, then with my helping hand to provide light, I push. My legs I can't control anymore, it's all in my wrist now. And again, I push.
Again, I scream.
Again, I swallow earth.
I spit stones.
I spit mud. 
The hole widens a little, and the earth falls on top of me.
With my right foot I remove my shoe from my left, and then with movements I didn't think I had mastered, I manage to bring my shoe close to my hand. I grasp it with breathtaking hope and with its heel I slip into the hole, break the wet wood, let the earth cover me, let the earthworms flood my mouth, my eyes, wander over my tongue.
Again, I spit. 
And I breathe. Once in a while, I breathe. I often hold my breath. 
With difficulty, with the blood running down my arm and tickling me like a gentle snowflake on my skin I pull my hand out of the coffin and grab what I can get my hands on. I push the rest of my body away, help myself to my legs, and my head is out. I'm alive! I will live! 
When I'm finally out, my feet on the cold wet grass, gasping for air, I look down at the pit, and the gravedigger continues to dump dirt over me.